The panzer-kampftruppen’s gunfire collided with the pack of mutant chickens, causing tails, flanks, and fore claws to burst into clouds of blood and feathers. Yet still they came, showing no concept of pain or fear. Dr. Scott’s reverse-evolution process had distilled into them every ounce of hunger and territorialism possessed by their most ferocious dinosaur ancestors.

The flock ripped and tore at the meat which still hung from the robotic intruder, too close now for the rotating barrels to pick them out. The panzer-kampftruppen smashed at them with its heavy fist. It caught one with a solid blow, sending the beast sprawling to the far side of the barn, but the rest crowded in even closer. They clogged the arm and leg joints with their tails and feet as they climbed their prey’s back and sides. One lunged its toothed beak into the narrow view-slit, searching for the pilot’s head the way an ordinary chicken might peck for a grub inside a log. Another seized the machine’s leg in its claws and dug its teeth deep into the hydraulic pump behind the knee, sending a spray of black oil down its face.

“Let’s get out of here before we find out who wins,” Reggie said as he hoisted the loft ladder up into the jagged gap in the roof. Preferring to lead by example—particularly when that example involved swift retreat—he scampered out into the daylight.

Dr. Scott followed him, and Clem appeared a moment later.

“This here’s one peach of an escape plan,” said Clem. “You reckon there’s a way to get down off’n this roof?”

Stepping lightly to avoid losing his balance or breaking through the damaged roof, Reggie worked his way over to the edge and peered down. There was a small haystack below, but they were at least twenty feet up. Once, one of his stunt men had broken a leg making a jump just like this one.

Reggie turned to tell the others that, out of the goodness of his heart, he would allow them to jump first. However, before he could open up his mouth, he saw the glinting silver and red fuselage of the Scrumtumbler S-1 hover-plane lifting up behind them like the glorious sunrise.

“See!” Reggie said, running past the other two towards the open side door of airplane. “Everything’s going exactly as I planned!”

The panzer-kampftruppen slashed downward with its fist and the door’s hinges ripped away from the wall. It clomped into the barn, the still-smoking barrels of its right arm swiveling in search of a target.

“And… action!” Reggie called.

Clem and Dr. Scott, positioned in the barn’s loft, dumped their buckets of offal down onto the panzer-kampftruppen, covering it in loops of cow innards and globs of jellified blood.

The walking tank had no neck joints and all its viewports were designed only for ground assault. Awkwardly, it leaned backwards in an attempt to target the source of the raining slop, but before it could bring its machineguns to bear, Reggie pulled the rope to begin phase two of his plan.

It was like he was a kid again, opening the curtains at his neighborhood vaudeville theater. This time, however, it wasn’t the curtain going up, it was a cage door sliding open. The mutant chickens, wild with their new freedom, howled and dashed forward like a swarm of meat-seeking missiles.

The panzer-kampftruppen spun to face them, flinging bits of grime and gore off itself as it turned. Its machinegun spat fire and thunder as the chickens howled. The fight was on.

This is an ongoing story about a lost world of hungry dinosaurs, sinister villains, and non-stop action. If you are new to Hollow Earth Expedition, I suggest starting at the beginning of the story.

Inside the barn, Dr. Scott dangled a slab of bloody meat through the thick bars of a livestock pen. Within the cage were several creatures that resembled chickens in the way a shark resembles a guppy. These so-called chickens were four feet tall with heavy-set beaks that had elongated into spike-toothed maws. Their legs were muscular and built for running, and their tails stretched back to counterbalance their heavy fore-bodies. Their skin was layered with yellow-brown scales except for the few irregular patches of brown feathers that dotted their backs, tails, and vestigial wings.

Reggie Sparks took one look at them and rushed back to the plane to assemble his camera equipment, leaving Kate and Clem to speak with the doctor.

Dr. Scott dangled a strip of steak through the bars. The monsters inside slammed against the cage and slashed at each other savagely to get at the meat.

“These can’t be chickens,” Kate said. “What did you do to them?”

“An animal’s entire evolutionary history is contained within every cell of its body,” Dr. Scott said. “All I did was prompt them to display different traits of their ancestors.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that chickens had such monstrous ancestors.”

“You might be surprised,” the doctor tossed in another hunk of meat and watched his creations tear into it. “It is very probably that the chicken is the closest living relative of the tyrannosaurus rex. It’s a little sad, when you think about it.”

“Pardon me,” said Clem. “But why on earth would you want to create a race of monster chicken?”

“Why?” he exclaimed as though simultaneously offended by the question and delighted at the opportunity to answer. “The reason is simple: a larger chicken means more meat. I’m going to feed the world. The future is bright! You’ll see—the twentieth century will bring great prosperity and lasting peace for all humankind.”

“I guess you don’t listen to the radio much,” Kate said.

Dr. Scott dumped the last of the meat through the bars and peeled off his gloves. “I don’t get radio reception out here. I’m afraid my communication with the outside world is limited to my telegraph line.”

Clem’s eyes widened just slightly at the mention of the telegraph. If he had been playing poker, he would have given himself away, but neither the pilot nor the scientist seemed to have noticed.

“Sir. Ma’am,” Clem said. “’Scuze me, if you don’t mind. I need to go freshen up.”

He left the two of them and passed Reggie, who was hustling his cinema equipment into the barn. That left Clem alone to enter the mansion, find the study, and locate the brass telegraph set on a side table. He dialed through to London, and began tapping out his message with the hand marked by the eye-and-triangle tattoo.

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Hollow Earth Expedition was created by Jeff Combos and is property of Exile Game Studio. For more Hollow Earth Expedition action, check out ExileGames.com