Great Big Teeth

by Eddie Generous

  The cap leaned and David began yanking at the rubbery innards, tearing hunks free until the cap was three-quarters over. Then he grabbed onto the fins and pulled himself up, foisting his weight to the very edge. Gravity did the rest.

  The cap tumbled and David popped out from beneath, a huge smile stretching his face. A punch caught him in the jaw and Emily screamed at the large, chiseled, naked man who’d come from seemingly nowhere. His beard was thin, but grossly long.

  “David Bowie Bowtie is going nowhere.” Doobie grabbed David by the throat with both hands and began to squeeze.

  David slapped weakly at the grip, his eyes bulging and the capillaries bursting all over, turning the sclera pink.

  “Do something!” Emily was livid, fists clenched, knowing she was virtually helpless against this hard man.

  Stevie leapt, wrapping his right arm around the man’s neck and pinching his legs over the man’s hips. Doobie punched back twice, after he’d let go of David. Emily charged him and knocked him in reverse. He fell on Stevie, whooshing the air from his chest, causing him to gasp in great donkey-like honks.

  Doobie kicked out with a sharp-nailed big toe, catching Emily through the lip, sending her in a free fall sideways. Her head thumped hard enough that the world spun when she tried to get up.

  Doobie rolled over then and started nailing Stevie with feet and fists. The blood bounced as it ran, as if he struck at a rusty mud puddle. David was in it enough to lash out with his heels, sending Doobie to the ground next to the unconscious Stevie.

  The rush of the river was loud enough that none of them heard the approach, but both Doobie and David felt it and scrambled to their feet. The roar shook the universe. Snot, saliva, and bits of its last meal sprayed both of the Hartman offspring.

  It was not the same beast from before. This one was smaller, its face leaner, its jaws longer. Its head reared back and then jerked down. Doobie had little time to move and dove sideways. A huge tooth punched through his hip. He wailed and blood flowed. He swung against the jaws. The beast reared back again, trying to send the meal home. Instead, Doobie’s body ripped and fell to the ground. The beast spun and kissed the earth, snatching the pieces of man up and crunching him down.

  David was frozen for as long as it took for Doobie to disappear. The dinosaur roared its pleasure and then turned its beady eyes onto David. Its huge mouth opened, washing blood and saliva all over the terrified threesome. David saw his dreams and all the sights he’d imagined of a world that existed like a myth at his fingertips, then he saw the emptiness of the place he’d known. Maybe it was better to die than to keep on living where he had, as he came to understand what he had.

  He could run, but Emily and Stevie would die. Peter had tried to save him and died for the effort; the least he could do was die with these people. He closed his eyes and stiffened.

  A second roar sent his right eardrum into a ringing fit.

  The dinosaur facing him turned and broke into a run. It made it five steps before the beast that ate Dick leapt onto it. They both tumbled, biting and kicking—fighting like Thunderdome housecats.

  David had his moment and took it. He shook Emily. “Up. Move. Now!” She opened her eyes. “Grab the mushroom cap.” The dinosaur fight was loud and sounded wet, nasty.

  Emily grabbed the cap and began pushing it to the edge of the shore. She was on her knees, groggy but functional. David had Stevie by the armpits, dragging him.

  One of the dinosaurs, the smaller one, tore into the bigger one and a wave of blood splashed up to their ankles. Gallons of the stuff. It was disgustingly cool for blood.

  Emily pushed the cap into the water and held it.

  David flopped Stevie onto the cap, pushing his legs over the shore. “Now you!” He grabbed the edge of the cap and Emily climbed in. He pushed.

  Behind him, the winner was up. It roared and David leapt.

  12

  Thursday, May 1, 2019: 9:15AM

  Emily watched as they pulled away from the dinosaur on the shore. Its mouth was red, sloppy red, dripping red, goddamned monstrously red.

  David reeled the rest of his body onto the cap and said, “Better hang on.”

  The falls were only about eight feet, but they came at them faster than they’d thought they would. They bounced and shook. Stevie’s unconscious form nearly bounced away until Emily flattened herself against him. The ride evened and they watched. There were no beasts on the shores and the mushrooms and moss that had begun anew, began dwindling.

  The river tightened and soon enough the only light was the mushroom cap. “This is almost worse,” Emily said, barely audible over the rush of the quickening river.

  David agreed, he’d never been in moving dark. Caves got dark, but caves didn’t move. They huddled tight into the cap. David hoped. Emily prayed. Stevie slept.

  The ride was fast and painful. Rocks jutted and the mushroom began to chunk out in bits.

  Part Four

  Media Circus

  1

  Friday, May 3, 2019: 4:11PM

  “It’s a real tragedy, but we’re working and will not rest until we’ve recovered every last citizen down there.” Scout Wallace wore brand new cave diving apparel, trying to look the part. “Happy Village is more than its streets and businesses; it’s our people.”

  The reporter stood out of view for the moment while the camera took in Scout, and then the devastation beyond. One hour after the quake devastated Happy Village, emergency services crews landed in a military helicopter, baffled. The town was gone and the highway led only to a crumbled mass of stones. They quickly found holes, ordered the tools in on the next chopper. Once the sonar results came back, nearly six hours later—sonar experts aren’t as ready to jump at an emergency, and the closest was in the city of Calgary—the rescue crews understood the depth and dropped in on ropes to assess. The screams made the news national.

  The military took over the operation and the best anyone could do, even locals with fancy new spelunking outfits, was wait and speculate.

  “If you ask me, it’s simply bad luck. I’ve heard things about fracking and drilling, and it all sounds farfetched. And we need the oil and the gas.”

  The reporter pulled the mic from the screen. “Are you saying that the lives lost are worth it to keep the natural resources pumping?”

  The mic reappeared before Scout. “What? No. This was a freak thing, had nothing—”

  The mic disappeared. “How do you account for the leaked RimRoil reports stating that an accident and then an earthquake resulting from that accident, occurred at eleven-eleven, the same minute the quakes began in Happy Village?”

  The mic popped back into view, its foam dark, but not as dark as the glare offered by Scout. “You some kind of leftist, fake news, global warming, tree hugger or something?”

  “No, simply dealing with facts.” The reporter came forward and mostly blocked Scout Wallace from the picture. Scout made an angry face that soured further by the half-second and he eventually stormed away as the reporter continued. “Currently, Happy Village is missing one hundred eighty of its residents. Thirty-one have been recovered from the wreckage. In a strange, freakish blessing, only an hour prior to the quake, a minor named Robert Hill showed up at the Happy Village school and shot two classmates. They both survived and caused enough stir that several parents wanted to well-wish the injured girls at the hospital and followed the ambulance out of town, possibly saving their lives. As for the shooter, he was taken out with a shotput shot by another student. That student, ah, a one, uh, Peter West is still missing.

  “The only things that are clear so far are that an earthquake rocked Happy Village, a place with the unlucky privilege of being located over an enormous underground chamber, which then sent the town itself underground while the top of the nearby Chipper Mountain rocked free and slid over the hole.

  “The screams on the emergency services recording and the vague reports of giant beasts are as of yet unsubstantiated beyond vagu
e eyewitness reports. As is the number of dead and if they died from the fall or something located beneath our very feet killed them instead.

  “I’m Laney Figgins for CBC News World.”

  2

  Friday, May 3, 2019: 4:11PM

  “These, my children, are guns.” Jane Hartman stood in Wayne Thomas’ armory. She came to the conclusion when Doobie did not return that David Bowie Bowtie had gotten free and people would be coming. She’d need to protect her children, keep off the accusations, and torment should anyone catch sight of the family during exploration. “We only use them to keep our secret. And maybe for dino protection.”

  Since her first inclining, she came to see the breadth of the issue. Military people had come into her territory, not the usual bulky type so much, and only a few carried weapons, but they wore the uniforms. They had landed only a few hundred feet from the store and set up a rescue mission, and then came into contact with the first big one she’d seen come onto the safe side in a very long time. Many sleeps. They’d departed quickly after that, but they’d be back.

  If these interlopers threatened her new life in the bunker, or the lives of her family members, she’d fight and die to keep her secret.

  3

  Monday, May 6, 2019: 11:11AM

  Alex Sawyers and Toni Robinson had the day off. Neither were Mexican, but decided to go to a little lake they knew and get stinking drunk on tequila for Cinco de Mayo. They’d taken Toni’s truck because the lake was down an old logging road and logging roads demanded clearance. On top of that, the truck bed made for good sleeping—put down some foam and drape a tarp, simple.

  In fold-out canvas chairs, they’d only just cracked their first can of Dos Equis each, filled their first red Solo shot glasses with Cazadores, and readied the salt when they noticed something odd a few hundred feet up the beach in the long grass.

  “Salut!” Alex said and popped her shot, rammed a lemon wedge between her teeth.

  Toni mimicked, grimaced, nearly puked, and then chugged half the beer from her can. “Let’s go see. I always gotta walk off the first one.” Toni figured she’d have to walk off the first handful; after that she’d be into the future punishment stage as opposed to current punishment stage.

  They started away. “Oh shit.” Alex began jogging, then looked over her shoulder. “Call nine-one-one.”

  The operator told Toni to stay on, so Toni put him on speakerphone while they checked the people on the beach. One was a naked teen. The other two were clothed teens. Grounded in the sand, a few feet away, was the biggest mushroom either of them had ever seen.

  “That’s fucked up.” Toni flipped the girl, saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. “She’s alive. She’s alive!”

  Alex bent down felt for a pulse in the clothed boy’s neck. She felt it, but wasn’t convinced it wasn’t her own pulse or wishful feeling. She pulled him onto his back and pressed her ear to his mouth.

  “Wha?” a tiny voice whispered, his lips brushing her skin. She jumped and screeched.

  Toni was above the naked boy. Touching him all over. He had several broken bones and his chest was one big black mess of bruises. “I think maybe this one’s dead. He’s awful busted up.”

  They waited and the paramedics arrived twenty-nine minutes later. “We almost drove right past,” the first said. She was squat and buff—like gym every night, buff.

  “The naked one, I think he’s dead.” Toni pointed, as if the paramedics might not be able to tell which one was naked.

  The second paramedic, a skinny dude with tattoos that started at his knuckles and ran until they had to duck beneath his shirt sleeves, bent over the skinny, battered body. He pressed fingers to throat and waited. “A pulse! Weak, but a pulse.”

  The woman spoke into the radio on her shoulder. They needed another bus. They had three survivors and were bringing out the worst of the trio first.

  4

  Sunday, October 20, 2019: 4:43AM

  Jane was in what she’d decreed the Great Viewing Room when Bugs Bunny came in to tell her that the men she’d warned of had returned and that they had weapons too. Jane pointed to the screen. “Gather the other youngins. We will fortify. We will conquer.”

  Bugs Bunny, a skinny nine-year-old with a misshapen head, hurried off to gather his brethren. Jane had figured out the remote and had watched dozens of movies since the discovery. She pressed the back button until the movie revealed the setting scenes for the warfare tactics she planned to employ.

  The children gathered within minutes of the request. “See and learn. We have these tools or variations of these tools. We will conquer all with will and cleverness. You may not know it, but your life leading up to now has meant little. From this moment on, your life means everything.” Jane lifted the remote and hit play.

  On the screen, a winded Kevin McCallister closes the front door to his home, locks it, and then sets to work, readying for every possibility.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Written In Stone: A Dinosaur Thriller

  Chapter 1

  The End

  He stopped. To move another inch, to even blink an eye, could mean a sudden, horrible death. He breathed slowly, in and out through his open mouth. The nasal passages were small and the air would make noise if he breathed through the nose. He controlled the exhale so he did not breathe out all the air and then have to gasp. But this air was different; it was hard to breathe, seemed heavier. Though it was humid, it made his throat feel dry and his breathing raspy. Still, he had to be quiet.

  He listened carefully, straining for even the smallest noise, but all he could hear above the constant noise of the insects was his own heart beating, pounding loud enough he thought that they might hear. He could feel the needles of fear starting to rise up his spine and he fought to keep it down, down where it would not affect his reasoning. Emotions got in the way of logic and right now he had to stay focused. He forced himself to stay in control so he would not betray himself with a sudden, panicked movement. Panic meant death. He took another slow breath. He had to remain in control.

  As he slowly pushed the fear out of his mind, he could again hear the swiftly running stream flowing over rocks and fallen trees just a few short yards away. The noise of the stream helped to cover any noise he made, but it masked their movements too. It was shallow and fast, no more than twenty or twenty-five feet across. He had found it right where they said it would be on his first fearful day out of the cave. That was less than two weeks ago, but it seemed much longer. It was six lives ago anyway. Six short lives. He knew the stream would not grow to be much larger and that the swampy, vegetation-choked ground where he was standing would be of great interest to others, including himself. That was why he kept coming back, because he already knew.

  He was hidden under a small fern tree, no more than four feet tall with thick, droopy, wide leaves that hung all the way to the ground. These trees were good for concealment, though every once in a while as he parted the leafy curtain to hide, he startled another animal that was already there. So far they had always run away but he hated being that close to them even for a second. These thick leaves would hide him from view for a while, but the hunters were thorough, always moving, always watching. Even if you didn’t move, sooner or later they would find you. He had watched them hunt; he had even been their prey. He had heard the screams of their victims and knew he was the lucky one, the only one who got away. He also knew it was only a matter of time before he was taken. He only hoped that when he felt the terrible clutch of their powerful claws, and the rending of their teeth, it would be quick.

  Waiting only increased the chance that he would be discovered but he knew he could not move, not yet. He knelt down slowly, his knees sinking noiselessly into the wet, muddy ground and continued to wait. Though over six feet tall, he could get very small when he had too, even with the backpack on. His once new khaki clothing was now dirty and torn and actually appeared to be disintegrating right off his bod
y. It had been their “safari” uniform. They had complemented each other on how they looked but hadn’t really thought about if it was practical or not. He wished now for a long sleeve shirt and long pants. Then maybe he wouldn’t have the rash on the back of his left leg and on both arms. It was getting worse and he knew it would probably slowly kill him. But slow or fast, he was dead anyway.

  All exposed metal on the backpack was covered with tape. They no longer made any noise as loose strap ends bounced into each other. It was simple, if you made noise, something would hear you or you would miss an important sound. A reflection of light from a metal clasp would show your location as surely as if you just stood up and shouted, “Here I am.”

  You also had to stop, look, and listen every few moments or you would miss something. And you did not want to miss anything. It reminded him of the prairie dogs from his grandfather’s farm when he was a kid. They constantly checked for predators, hunters, and now he understood why. You had to be able to sort out the noises and movements, some made by insects and smaller animals moving furtively through the thick vegetation. Their quick movements would startle him and he was always afraid the noise would bring something bigger to investigate the movement. Other noises were made by the hunted, some small, about waist high, but others were large, huge in fact. Like watching a building walk through a forest. All were wary though, constantly watching for the hunters. When the jungle grew still, when it seemed the world was holding its breath, you knew they were stalking and you prayed it was not you they were after.

  The hunters were always there, always watching, always listening, always hungry. Fortunately, most of them were small, afraid of him because of his size. But the bigger ones, they feared nothing, they owned this swampy morass, it was their world after all, not his. If only it was raining like it had been for the last three days and nights, then he could move about more easily. Not that they minded the rain and the deep mud it produced, but a hard, driving rain and the crash of thunder covered the sounds of movement. You needed every edge. Of course, it masked their sounds too.