The stench of death assaults my nose as the abyss yawns before me. I breathe in the stagnant draft as a slippery carpet sweeps me off my feet. Ivory spikes rise from above and below. They curve inward, directing me to the pit and reminding me that this journey might be my last.
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We need help. Because—to put it frankly—the world has gone to crap, and we need a hero to save us. That’s why I went searching for that forgotten island, somewhere between the Old World and the New—Avalon. On this island I would find a mountain, and the king sleeping beneath it.
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The thing about adventures is they’re only fun in hindsight.
Take last week, for example. My car broke down, which wouldn’t be too special, except it was in a ginormous mudhole. While it was raining. Actually, raining is too mild a description. This was a monsoon.
I stared out the windscreen…
“We hit this gas station”—I point at a crease in the map spread out over the RV’s dining table—“grab food, toilet paper, gas—”
“And slushies,” Martin chimes in.
“—and slushies. Then we hightail it to the monument, here.”
I survey my crew. Martin, my younger brother, looks like a…
She swept into town like the swirls of dust that haunted the desert plains, a lonely traveler like a bounding weed, and struck out to seek what was lost.
The town, its decrepit buildings leaning into the incessant south winds, swiftly spread the name of Mellie Rembrandt. Nobody forgot a name like Rembrandt…
I gazed at the distant horizon, where the sky met the sea. The indigo twilight slowly faded into the dark ocean.
Something in that vast emptiness called out to me. It was more than just a vague desire to see the world. It was more of a beckoning. Like a beacon from a distant
Cyrus Montez knelt by the large print in the mud and surveyed the surrounding jungle. “We’re close.”
The native guide, hoisting a spear and, wearing nothing but a loin cloth, nodded and waved his arm, motioning for Montez to follow.
“The Phoberomys?” Julie Szubanski shouldered her pack and prepared her DSLR camera.
“Do you remember me mentioning how much I hate small spaces?”
Sic sighed. “It’s not like you can see how small it is.”
I blinked. Or at least I think I blinked. The cave was so dark, it was hard to tell.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Sic added.
“No. That’s not
Dr. Byron Stoneburner made his camp on the side of the Artic mountain. He nibbled what jerky remained in his pack and warmed his frostbitten nose next to the fire, calculating his progress by the aged map in his possession. The yellowing pages had turned brittle in the frosty air, but he had memorized
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Dawson Malone prided himself on many things—his jawline and tracking abilities most of all. His crowning achievement thus far? Discovering the Merfolk after they’d been believed extinct for centuries.
So when he heard of monsters lurking deep in the Tangauryan jungle, he pounced.
“You don’t want to go in there,” the woman
Misael sighed. “Do you know where we’re going, Sis?”
Giah glanced up from her map to Misael, who stood beside her in the dark tunnel. Their torch’s flame cast wavering light on the stone walls and across his furrowed brows.
“Of course I’m sure.” Turning back to the map, Giah spun it right, then
The ship’s hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss. My team stood behind me as the door lowered to create a ramp. I walked about halfway down and stopped. The grassy meadow we’d chosen for landing spread around us. A dense forest circled the meadow in every direction.
“I’ve got the xallenite,” Myra said
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