Megalania Read online

  ROBERT FORRESTER

  MEGALANIA

  (Vile Beasts Series)

  Published internationally by Best of Both Worlds, UK

  Park Rd, Birmingham, UK

  © Robert Forrester 2015

  The right of Robert Forrester to be identified as the author has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  Digitally produced by Best of Both Worlds

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or circulated without the publisher’s consent in any form other than this current form and without a similar condition being imposed upon a subsequent purchaser.

  Any similarity between characters and situations and places or persons, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  ROBERT FORRESTER

  MEGALANIA

  (Vile Beasts Series)

  Megalania prisca (or Varanus priscus)

  Megalania prisca roamed Oceania approximately 30,000 years ago. Little is known about this giant goanna or monitor lizard as very few fossils have been found and certainly no complete skeletons. It is believed, however, that it shared similarities to the current largest lizard, the Komodo dragon, only Megalania was bigger. Much bigger. Some estimates have suggested it could have reached over 7 metres in length (23 feet) and weighed nearly two metric tons (4,400 pounds), making it a formidable predator.

  As humans first inhabited Australia around 40,000-60,000 years ago, it is quite likely early aboriginal settlers encountered this terrifying lizard. Today, despite numerous reports of sightings in Australia and New Guinea, no evidence has been found to suggest there is still a living population ... yet!

  Chapter 1

  The Forests of Papua New Guinea

  The teeth chewed through the rock like a predator devouring flesh, turning the scrubby plain into a wasteland of deep furrows and piled up mounds of dirt. They’d cut through two acres that morning, uprooting trees, churning up soil, scattering the exotic birds and desolating the land, all for a few measly ounces of gold dust.

  ‘Cut it off,’ Taylor shouted, lowering his mask.

  The thunderous drone of the excavator continued to devour rocks, drowning out his words, so Taylor resorted to waving his hands frantically, finally grabbing Jackson’s attention at the control panel.

  ‘What is it?’ Jackson asked, shutting off the machine and jogging over.

  The two local workers wasted no time and took the opportunity to take a break, slumping to the ground and rolling cigarettes.

  Taylor pointed at the conveyor. ‘What do you make of that?’

  Jackson peered at the strange fragments on the belt. ‘Looks like egg shells to me.’

  ‘Pretty big eggs,’ Taylor said. He picked up a couple of fragments and tried to piece them together. They looked like porcelain but bent in his hand as he handled them, as if made from rubber.

  Jackson shrugged. ‘Could be from a cassowary, they’re pretty big. Whatever they are, they ain’t hatching now.’ He glanced down the conveyor. ‘How we doing today?’

  ‘Not good,’ Taylor said, pointing to the wheelbarrows. The local workers had filled them ready for transport to the sluice pools. There, they’d use a mixture of oil and water to separate the dust from the tiny specks of gold. A convoluted process, especially considering the tiny amount it yielded.

  ‘Do you think we’ll miss our quota again?’

  Taylor shrugged. ‘I reckon so. Let’s take five.’

  His whole body ached. Thick dust choked the air, covering him from head to foot. The constant drone of the machinery and the diesel fumes had given him a headache and the humidity and stench of the surrounding forests was getting to him.

  He needed a cold drink to cool off.

  Damn it, he needed a new job.

  Alvaston Mining Corp was a big company, perhaps the biggest open-pit mining corporation in the world. Yet despite their size, and the hundreds of millions they invested in research and surveying and equipment, extracting gold ore remained a dirty, heavy, physical job that required men like Taylor to break their backs under the searing heat in some of the remotest places in the world, and they didn’t get much remoter than Papua New Guinea.

  They were twenty miles from the main camp, two hundred from the nearest city, and all around was nothing but scrubland, jungle and mosquitoes. He hated it.

  It was well-paid work, though. He and Jackson got a commission on the gold they found. The more they dug, the more they made, and with two kids in college, an impending divorce and a hefty IRS bill, Taylor needed every ounce he could find.

  He brushed off the crust of dirt and dust covering his body and picked up a couple of bottles of Coke from the cooler, waving one to Jackson, who was shouting to the locals in their own language to get back to work.

  How the kid had picked it up so quick amazed Taylor. It was a sort of Pidgin English but with German and Dutch and Portuguese and God only knew what else thrown into the mix, so listening to it was like being bombarded with a half dozen languages at once. Thankfully, working with Jackson meant Taylor had no need to learn it. Besides, he found that if you shouted loud enough and made a few hand gestures, the locals soon got the gist of what you wanted.

  ‘Jesus, I need this,’ Taylor said, taking a swig of Coke and handing Jackson the other bottle.

  Jackson agreed with a nod and dusted the worst of the dust off his overalls. It got everywhere, in their shoes, up their nose, in their ears, in every orifice. After they left the country, they’d be sneezing the stuff out for weeks.

  ‘How’s the excavator running?’ Taylor asked, guzzling the bottle empty.

  Jackson was a geologist, so by rights, shouldn’t have been working the machine, but their boss liked getting value for money. As they had finished all their surveying, he insisted Taylor put the young graduate to more work. Strangely, Jackson didn’t mind, he was keen and eager and worked a damned sight harder than the natives did.

  With Jackson on the excavator and Taylor operating the trommel, which was pretty much just a rotating drum used to separate the excavated rock and rubble from the dust that it spat out down a conveyor, they’d been making decent progress up until now, but the last day or two had been rough going.

  ‘We’ll have to change blades before the morning’s out,’ Jackson said. ‘There must be some iron ore in the rocks in this area.’

  ‘Just try to keep it running as long as you can. I was hoping to clear another acre before it gets too hot.’

  That was the biggest hurdle to working out in the middle of the forest, the heat of the day. It wasn’t too bad in the main camp, where you could always grab some shade in one of the huts and lean-tos, but out here, in the middle of nowhere, there was no respite. The heat was different to anything Taylor had experienced before too. Humid. Oppressive. The sweat never evaporated just mixed with the putrid stench of the forest, making midday intolerable for anything other than huddling under a flimsy canvas and waiting for the mercury to fall below a hundred.

  And when it wasn’t too hot, it was raining, and that was worse. It fell in biblical torrents, churning up the ground into a quagmire before evaporating almost as quickly as it fell, steaming off their bodies and leaving the equipment stuck in dried mud.

  Taylor checked his watch. Night fell at six. That meant they had another eight hours before the copter came to take them back to the main camp, where there was cold beer, an air-conditioned mess hut, and hot food. By that time, Taylor would be so used up he’d probably just hit his bunk and sleep.

  It had been the same routine for weeks, and Taylor didn’t know how much more he could take. Jackson seemed to be coping okay but he wa
s not long out of college. He was young, fit, fresh-faced and keen, but Taylor was pushing fifty and nearly every part of his body complained of some ailment or another.

  He arched his back and rubbed his creaking kidneys. ‘There’s gotta be a better way to make a living,’ he said, more to himself than to Jackson.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Jackson asked, rubbing the cold bottle of cola across his forehead.

  ‘Not always. If the company sends you to South Africa, you’ll live like a prince. Good accommodation, places to go on your night’s off, nice women—whole different gig. But that operation has been going for as long as the company has. They start these backwater set-ups as trial and error. Often, they cost more to run than we make. That’s why they’ve sent us away from the main pit. So far, it ain’t paying for itself. If they don’t hit their quotas, we’ll be packing up before Christmas. And if you ask me, that won’t be a bad thing.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Jackson said, swigging from his bottle. ‘It has its charms. Can’t be many places left on Earth as unexplored. I kinda feel like a pioneer, boldly going where no man has gone before.’

  Taylor let out a derisory laugh. ‘And when you’re out here playing at being Captain Kirk, what’s that nice piece of tail of yours doing back home?’

  Jackson’s face stiffened and Taylor felt guilty. It was a low remark, even for him, but he could only take so much of Jackson’s boyish optimism. He was a little jealous too. He’d seen the photo in Jackson’s wallet of the blonde, twenty-something with the body of an athlete and the chest of a porn star. Barring a quick tumble in a brothel in Port Moresby with a sweaty local woman, who had a pug nose and bad teeth, Taylor had not been with a woman since his wife ran off with that football coach.

  ‘I guess we should get back to dig—’ Jackson’s words faded as something caught his attention.

  Taylor followed the younger man’s gaze. In the long grass at the far side of the excavation site stood a figure, naked barring a bizarre protruding sheath over his nether region that stuck up as if he were aroused. Taylor had read about the local tribesmen in a guidebook, but had not seen one before. He didn’t know what the penis gourd symbolised, nor did it alarm him, despite it being nearly two-feet in length. But what did cause him concern was the spear the man carried, and the half dozen other spearmen now appearing behind him.

  He whispered to Jackson, ‘Go get the rifle.’

  Jackson hesitated for a moment, but a glare from Taylor sent him scampering off to their gear, which alerted the two local workers to the presence of the intruders. They stood sombrely, eyes fixed on the tribesmen, none of whom moved, even when Jackson ran back with the rifle.

  ‘You’re not going to shoot them, are you?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Not if I have to.’ Taylor pulled back the bolt. ‘But I’m taking no chances. With any luck, they’ll get bored and move off.’

  He turned and gestured to the local workers to get back to the conveyor, but Jackson grabbed his shoulder, spinning him back again.

  ‘Look!’

  One of the tribesmen, who had the longest and sharpest penis gourd, was waving his spear above his head, not threatening or menacingly, but as if trying to get their attention.

  ‘What do you think he wants?’ Jackson asked, his brow furrowed.

  Taylor squinted at the line of ominous figures. ‘Cigarettes, a drink, who knows?’

  He paused for a second and glanced over at the two local workers, who had not resumed work but stood staring at the tribesmen, fear etched on their dirty faces.

  Taylor sighed. ‘We’ll have to go see what they want because we ain’t gonna get any work done until we do.’

  ‘You sure it’s wise to go over there on your own?’

  Taylor smiled. ‘I’m not going on my own. You’re coming with me!’

  Jackson’s jaw dropped, but Taylor slapped him on the back. ‘C’mon, it’ll be all right. Just stay close to me.’

  After Taylor placed the rifle on his back, they strolled slowly up the slight bank to the tree line. The tribesmen remained still, their spears and penis gourds pointing skyward as they eyed the two approaching white men.

  Taylor stopped a good five paces away. He came from a gun family and was good with a rifle, quick, but he doubted he was quick enough to get off a shot if one of the natives decided to stick him with a spear.

  ‘Ask them what they want,’ he said, as Jackson stood nervously over his shoulder.

  After a few nervous ‘ums’ and ‘erms’ Jackson spat out a load of his Pidgin English, but none of the tribesmen appeared to understand.

  For a long moment, they glanced at each other, until eventually, their leader stepped forward and jabbed his spear towards the bush behind his shoulder, shouting, ‘Wawanar! Wawanar!’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Taylor asked.

  Jackson shook his head. ‘No idea. It isn’t one of the main languages. They’ve probably got a dialect all of their own.’

  The tribesmen continued gesticulating with his spear, his actions becoming increasingly animated. His face looked grim and the whites of his eyes widened as he spouted more unfathomable words.

  ‘I think he’s trying to warn us about something,’ Jackson said. ‘He certainly looks scared.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a leopard about or something.’

  ‘I don’t think they have leopards over here.’

  Taylor unslung his rifle. ‘Well, whatever it is.’ He spoke the next words loudly and slowly, patting his rifle as he did so. ‘We can look after ourselves!’

  The tribesmen looked at each other, jabbered something to one another, and then with a shrug, the tribal leader made a gesture with his spear and they all slunk back into the long grass.

  ‘I wonder what the hell all that was about,’ Jackson said, as the last of the tribesmen disappeared among the foliage.

  ‘Who cares?’ Taylor slung the rifle on his back. ‘Let’s get back to work.’

  Soon the shattering noise and thick dust filled the clearing again as Jackson restarted the excavator and the cumbersome machine chewed through the dirt and rock, spitting it into the trommel where it span around like old clothes in a dryer. The remaining dust and smaller fragments eventually trundled along the conveyor to where the local workers shovelled it into barrows.

  After half an hour, Taylor’d forgotten all about the tribesmen, even standing the rifle next to the trommel’s control panel as he studied the ore coming along the conveyor. Then the rocks and dirt trundling along the belt turned red, and bits of flesh and skin and torn clothing appeared amongst the rubble.

  ‘Jesus!’ Taylor shouted, stepping back, and slamming the emergency shut off button.

  His first thought was that Jackson or one of the locals had slipped and fell into the machine, but as he dashed toward the conveyor, he saw something that made him skid to a halt.

  It was huge, perhaps twenty feet long from head to tail, its body the size of a rhino’s, and a similar colour, only scaly, with a wrinkled neck and head that housed two small black eyes and a pair of jaws as wide as a suitcase, and out of which hung a man’s arm.

  A bloodied, gory mess lay at its feet.

  Jackson.

  Standing between Taylor and the creature, the two local workers, both stock still, out of either fear or the hope it wouldn’t see them. The creature flicked its head back, opening its jaws to swallow the limb hanging in its mouth. That was all the two local men needed, and they ran, knocking Taylor onto his back.

  The creature wasted no time.

  It hissed, flicking out its forked tongue before slowly moving forward, the eight ball coloured eyes spying the helpless Taylor as he kicked at loose dirt to try to back away.

  With clumsy feet, the creature waddled toward him then gathered speed, its long tail swimming left and right to keep balance as it launched into a run, the clawed feet flicking dirt from the floor.

  Taylor scrambled to his feet and made a dash for his rifle that still rested again
st the conveyor.

  He nearly made it too, his fingers only inches away when he felt the terrible searing pain in his leg. He was then tossed into the air, where he half somersaulted, before catching the last sight he’d see on earth—those terrible jaws, wide open like a bear trap ready to snap shut.

  Chapter 2

  Despite the heat and the bugs and the constant downpours, and the terrible food, Suzanna Howard was enjoying every minute of being in the interior of Papua New Guinea. It was undiscovered country. One of the last remaining places hardly explored. An entire ecosystem barely studied.

  Four days into their ten-day expedition and they’d already found dozens of new species of both flora and fauna.

  Most of the botanists were American and got overly excited about every new fern or orchid or shrub they discovered, merrily dancing around the camp and coming up with new Latin names for their discoveries, which they pronounced appallingly.

  As a zoologist, Suzanna’s discoveries were less frequent, but even she couldn’t help but squeal in delight when she found the Ying Yang the previous morning. That wasn’t its official name, because it didn’t have one. It was a tree frog, half white, half black, hence the nickname she’d given it, and in her opinion a far more exciting find than any new flower of bush. This was an actual living, breathing creature never before seen by science. A dream come true for any zoologist. Most researchers went an entire career without ever identifying anything new. Suzanna was twenty-three, newly graduated, and already accomplished more than she’d ever hoped.

  The forests contained an abundance of life, from birds-of-paradise and rodents of varying sizes to lizards, insects and spiders the size of dinner plates. Some of it was similar to species in her native Australia—New Guinea was full of marsupials—and many of the insects and reptiles resembled the species back home, but not the Ying Yang. It was completely new and unlike any frog she’d ever seen.