by David Boyle
“Quit with the griping already. What, did I get you?”
“No, but almost. And part of the reason we’re doing this is to see what the hell’s in here. And now what have we got? A frickin mess….”
Mark and Ron were still at it, minutes later, color finally returning to Hayden’s face when something gooey plopped on the sand. Charlie was dragging a crumpled mass of pink. “Guttin’ not your cup’a tea?”
“Is a little on the overwhelming side.”
“Can take some gettin’ used to.” Charlie dug through the deflated lungs to the purplish mass at the center. “Got that knife you were using? This I want to bring back.” The dinosaur’s heart was plastered with sand, and Hayden said he’d just as soon leave it. Another chunk hit the ground.
“Would you guys watch where you’re throwing that…?”
Ron was hunched and hacking away at the liver, Mark insistent he was going about it all wrong when a covey flushed along the tree line. A dozen or more bundles of color flew past, their iridescent wings flickering blue-green as they zoomed out over the river and turned in a twittering swirl and headed north.
A voice called out: “Charlie…!”
Tony was waving atop the far bank. “Behind you! Look behind you! You got to get….”
Charlie snapped around, he and Hayden catching sight of the thing at virtually the same instant. Low to the ground and coming fast, the animal was nothing but claws and teeth. “Fuck….” Charlie took off running, his Aussie tumbling when it clipped a nearby support. “Run, guys! There’s a dinosaur comin’!”
Hayden looked to his partner—“Hurry!”—and sprinted away.
Mark jumped up, his too-far-reaching search snapping into focus when a feathered demon vaulted a cycad, its jaws bristling with teeth. He raced around the corythosaur’s head, Ron at his heels, the fleet-footed predator approaching fast when Ron tripped on a discarded branch. He skipped once… twice… and finally went sprawling, the scuba knife tumbling from his fist before he even hit the ground. “Bennett…!”
The dinosaur turned like a shark to a cripple, Mark searching for a terrified instant before snatching a limb from the sand and hurrying back, whooping, hollering, and screaming gibberish while whirling the leafy discard over his head. Arms went out, the confused predator hissing to a stop as Mark strode forward, the thing in striped plumage lunging at the limb fluttering past its snout.
“Find something to get his attention!” Mark shouted, his bluff one only a madman would use, and one he knew couldn’t possibly last.
Ron scrambled to Charlie’s hat and flipped it wide of the predator. The head turned, the eyes tracking, the fleet-footed predator needing but a step before launching itself at the bait, the two backing toward the river while their feathered attacker pounced on the sweat-stained Aussie.
12
The predator soon tired of the hat, a feathered arm reaching to claw a strand from its teeth. It looked to the scavengers, sniffing the air, then padded to the entrails scattered beside the carcass. A bluish tongue probed a kidney, a foot pinning the organ while the jaws went to work, a squishy mouthful ripping lose when the predator shook its head and twisted. It tossed its head back, gulping, the bulge still slipping along the animal’s gullet when it paused to scan the nearby trees. Another mouthful, and quickly another, the ever more confident predator shortly strutting about the slowly bloating entrails in hopes of discovering other, even tastier morsels.
The feathered killer sniffed the hadrosaur’s meaty rear leg, its gaze drifting to the angled uprights. It nipped at the skin, tugging, its gaze drawn to the ragged support and the meaty prize suspended above. The dinosaur stepped forward, bobbing its head, the banded tail quivering as it sniffed the recently trimmed pole. The nostrils flared at a bloody handprint. The tongue licked out….
Mark gasped when he spotted the talon hovering above its foot. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered, his eyes darting along the tree line.
They were ankle-deep in the river, Ron livid at not having posted a lookout while an animal that couldn’t possibly exist nosed about his trophy, his rifle on its bed of wilted fronds no less distant than if on the moon! The dinosaur had paid Mark’s shirt and belt only passing interest, but seemed genuinely fascinated by the leg they’d worked so hard to get out of their way.
Ron glanced at both Mark and Hayden. “Be ready to move,” he whispered.
The head was up, sniffing, the big leg held well beyond the predator’s reach. It jumped up, wing-like arms fluttering as it snapped a gash in the inner flesh of the corythosaur’s thigh. Oozing redness became tantalizing beads, the watchful predator circling when drops started falling, stepping through the gore and over the other of the meaty hind legs. It turned and circled back, head up, twisting. And finally it stopped, the barred tail quivering as the animal considered the suspended feast, like Aesop’s fox, wondering what to do.
The dinosaur slumped to a crouch, staring, shifting its weight, then launched itself at the meaty hind leg. The jaws clamped, claws hooked on, the predator snarling as it hung by its teeth, the better part of the carcass jiggling as the predator struggled to rip flesh from bone.
“This is it guys. Get moving. Just don’t draw the bastard’s attention.” Ron kept track of the dinosaur’s every move as he started along the beach, Mark a step behind him.
Charlie’s gaze was locked on the predator. “What are you waiting for?” Hayden whispered. “Move already!” Charlie shook his head. No!
The supports splintered, the predator backpedaling as the leg dropped amid a shower of splinters. Charlie flinched, and the predator came staring around. Its gaze was that of a demon, their notions of courage and valor fast dissolving as the brutish little predator stared into their very souls. They watched, trembling, as the predator crouched and folded its arms, a hiss still building in its throat when the dinosaur darted forward.
Hayden jerked Charlie into the river, the two splashing away as Ron and Mark sprinted for the canoes.
“Bennett, watch out!” a voice screamed from across the river.
Mark jinxed left, glancing, then grabbed his hat and gave it a toss, and two steps later splashed from shore and dove for the river. Not twice fooled by the same diversion, the predator followed him into the shallows, snapping at the swirls. It stared for a moment at the escaping scavengers, then redirected its attack.
A few yards was all he needed, yet even flat out he wasn’t going to make it, the thumps fast approaching when Ron dove for the river…
The predator leaped, the legs sprang forward, the talons poised when a blue-white beam intercepted its chest. The dinosaur exploded with an ear-shattering boom. Ron slammed hard into the water. A cloud of vaporized flesh roiled skyward, the boom still fading when the predator’s shattered body hit the ground, bits and pieces splattering the shoreline for long seconds thereafter….
Ron wobbled onto his knees, coughing, waving his arms. Scores of tiny red bits dotted the water, and he watched in a daze, not at all sure what they were. Or why he was watching in the first place. His ears were ringing. A tinny voice called out in the distance. Something hard grazed his leg, and he turned, blinking, and wondered about that too.
A silver torpedo shot past and exploded nearby, and quickly another, the surface soon boiling in a frenzy. Quickly surrounded, Ron stumbled to shore, still trying to make sense of it all as fins sliced and churned the river’s surface like an ever expanding disease.
The haze in his head was clearing, an awful stench quick to take its place. There were footprints along the waterline. And he remembered running. Then the toothy bastard in feathers. And finally the terror when he realized he was about to die. His stomach knotted, his head suddenly off in too many directions, and the volcano brewing in his gut simply boiled over.
Ron clutched at his stomach, retching, then doubled over and emptied his guts onto the sand.
Downstream and ahead of a strainer, coughing and lying face down in the muck, Mark lifted his
head when he heard a splash. A ‘V’ formed along the surface, the water billowing like cauliflower in its wake. Tiny red comets were drifting on the current. And there, another fin. He looked alongshore and saw they were everywhere.
“You okay…?”
Mark came around and spotted Hayden trotting along the opposite shore. “Yeah, I think so. You?”
“The swim was a bitch, but yeah, I’m okay. Charlie’s a little ways past the point and puking his guts out, but other than that, I’m pretty sure he’s okay too.”
“This sure as hell isn’t gonna help his head any.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not going to be sleeping all that well either.” Hayden checked upriver, Ron sprawled on the beach near the canoes. “There’s no way I’m going swimming again, but if you paddle over I can help with the butchering.”
Mark got to his feet. “I burned my arms out getting here, and it’s going to take a while until they’re working again. Tell you what though, if you want to stay put, we can pick you up on our way back.” Hayden said he’d like to, but if they didn’t need him, he’d just as soon check on Charlie. “Sounds like a plan. Watch that there isn’t anything hiding in that crap alongshore.” Mark waved when Hayden took off. “See you back at camp.”
Drippy, muddy, and glad simply to be alive, Mark followed the crumbly root infested bank to the point where it turned away from the river. The canoes weren’t all that much farther, and neither was McClure. He started at a trot, “Ron…?” then took off running. Ron turned and lifted a hand, Mark slumping beside him seconds later. “For a minute there, I thought he got you.”
“Yeah well, almost.”
Mark curled his nose at the still smoldering carcass, then looked at his companion. “You look like crap.”
Ron coughed up a chuckle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re not so hot yourself.” He reached over and slapped his back. “I owe you one, Bennett.”
Mark frowned. “What for this time…?”
“Don’t give me that modesty crap. That thing with the stick? Crazy shit if you ask me.” Ron squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Took more balls than brains to do that.”
Mark rinsed the welts on his arms. “You do what you gotta. Besides, what kind of a friend would I be if I wasn’t there to pull my buddy’s sorry ass out of a fire?”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but the smell downwind was definitely worse. Half feathers and half scales, the thing that had attacked them was easily the weirdest, meanest looking animal Mark had ever seen. Before Wheajo had blown it apart, the animal had been ten feet long, give or take, and maybe three at the haunches, the extended arms easily wider than he was tall. The tuft of feathers at the back of its head reminded him of a cassowary, except that the cassowary was way tinier and it didn’t have teeth!
Brown on brown and coarse on top, speckled black over gray on its belly, the patchwork feathers had the feel of flexible armor, the plumes shielding its arms functioning secondarily as a means of making the wolfish killer look bigger than it actually was. Which to Mark seemed totally superfluous as this was clearly an animal not to be fucked with.
“I’ve read that these things are supposed to run in packs,” he said, turning its head. “Either the researchers are wrong—and I really hope they are—or this one’s a rogue.” Mark pried the mouth open with a stick, whistling as Ron stormed past him. “That is one nasty set of teeth.” He looked close, waving at the stench. “The way these interlock, our friend here couldn’t chew even if he wanted to.”
Ron snatched the rifle from its wilted green bed, and started back. “We’re never, and I mean never going anywhere without somebody standing guard. The rifle… the revolver…. Hell, even Van Dyke’s bow and arrow! Somebody is going to be ready with a weapon every frickin’ time we step the hell off that island.” He kicked the thing in the face—“You bastard!”—then kicked it again, breathing hard and clearly still seething. “What the fuck is this thing, anyway? And what’s with the feathers?”
Mark grabbed hold of a foot. “We’re in the western part of what’s called Laurasia, and there aren’t a whole lot of animals here that have talons like this. Unless I miss my bet, dickhead here is a deinonychus.”
There was no doubt who had killed it, and in retrospect what with. The deinonychus had been nearly blown in half: a ragged hole all that remained of where its right arm had been; its left foreleg a shattered stump. The guts were either missing or mutilated, and nothing could be learned of the dinosaur’s internal anatomy. They were able to roll it over, and based on the effort put the predator’s weight at roughly two hundred pounds, possibly two-seventy alive.
Sleek and compact, agile, and very fast, the deinonychus seemed a match for the majority of predators they were familiar with using only its teeth and claws. Remarkably, neither constituted its primary weaponry, a distinction that fell to its oversize talons, which here measured fully seven inches along the inner surface. A rarity in the fossil record, Mark was sure paleontologists would kill for an opportunity to examine one so closely. And he had this one all to himself.
Mark found the skull to be exceptionally well built, if not to enclose the brain considered by many to be one of the best ever carried by a dinosaur, but rather to provide the attachment sites for the muscles that gave the compact killer its frighteningly powerful bite. And the eyes! Orange-brown with round pupils, they were the eyes of an animal adapted to hunting in all light conditions. Widely spaced and directed forward, the placement was almost owl-like in endowing the animal extraordinary depth perception.
Broken, burned, and missing more than a few pieces, the feathered nightmare sprawled across the sand was a far cry from the dull-witted brutes so often depicted in books.
“I know you’d like to pick and probe, but we still have a big job to do.”
“Yep, been thinking about that.” Mark got up and swiped at the sand, his pants already drying. “I was thinking about trying to talk you into bringing the thing back, but ugly as it is, I’d just as soon leave it. Which kind of surprises me, though that’s how I feel.”
“The son-of-a-bitch did try to kill us.”
“Yeah, that could have something to do with it.” Mark walked over, got his hat, and asked Ron where the scuba knife was.
Ron started toward the corythosaur carcass. “It’s somewhere along this track. Figure out how much butchering we need to do and I’ll look for that cleaver of yours.”
The knife was located in short order, and after a thorough cleaning was used to cut a four by almost five foot section of skin from the hadrosaur’s chest. Spread sticky side up beside the carcass, the skin became the repository for the meat carved from the body. “You thinking about the backstraps?” Ron asked when Mark hunched his way inside the ribcage.
“How’d you know?”
“I said it was bigger, but that didn’t mean I haven’t done this before. And from what I remember, there isn’t much else in there.”
Mark loosened the lower end of the muscle running beside the spine. “Do me a favor and whack me off a section of that skin. This is one piece I’d really like to keep clean.”
“How big?”
“I guess I can fold it…. Say three feet by two.” Mark was nearly finished when a finely beaded piece of skin came dangling from above. “That’s perfect, thanks.”
Within twenty minutes they had four separate bundles piled beside the carcass. “How about calling it quits? We’re already here longer than we should be, and we’ve got more of this than we can possibly use.”
Ron slid down the side of the body. “So where’s the other one?”
“The backstrap? Dumbshit got most of it, and I wasn’t keen on using what was left.” Mark stared at the shattered predator. “Pisses me off, too. Now I’m really glad he’s dead.”
“I wouldn’t sweat it until we see what this stuff tastes like. You ever done any smoking?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“W
e get back, maybe we can put something together. We’re not going to eat but a fraction of this, and the rest we’re going to need to cure. We pull that off like I’m hoping, we can cut back on how often we end up having to leave the island. Find the right wood, and it might be better than off the hoof.” Ron banged one of the hadrosaurs feet. “What would you call these anyway. They’re not claws.”
“Nails… hooves… either one works for me.”
The canoes were not long thereafter, Mark ready to shove off when Ron pulled his knife and headed for the deinonychus. “Figure out where Prentler put the camera. We ever get out of here, I want a record of what we had to deal with.” Mark got a picture of Ron standing over the predator, a dismembered foot each hand, and another with his heel on the animal’s throat. Still simmering, Ron hacked the predator’s body in half and pitched the pieces into the river. “Good riddance, ya prick.”
Wanting an ‘after’ shot to go along with the ones taken earlier, Mark propped the camera on the Styrofoam plugging the Discovery’s bow. Focus set, he activated the timer, and graceless as ever—Ron said later Mark did it on purpose—he tripped and went sprawling on his way over, and without missing a beat rolled up on an elbow and smiled.
Tony and Hayden were shore side, Wheajo watching from atop the bank when the canoes arrived. The Grumman went first, then the Discovery, each loaded with bundles of meat. Neither were particularly heavy, though with the slippery footing and little room to work, it took a good fifteen minutes to wrestle the two canoes up and over the incline.
Ron climbed to the top, and after helping Tony up, went to Wheajo and extended a hand. “I wanted to thank you right off for saving my life.” Wheajo stood there, clearly confused, Ron first taking his hand, then bending to give the alien a hug. He straightened, a smile brightening his face when he caught the alien’s expression. “My way of saying thanks,” he explained.
