Dinosaur World Omnibus

by Adam Carter

  “Maybe it makes me feel less nervous. I’ve never known an animal eat so much.”

  “It’s not eating anything. It’s trapped in unfamiliar corridors when it’s used to being able to hide in trees or slip into foliage or the marsh itself. It doesn’t understand all these walls and especially the ceiling. And people running towards it with guns isn’t going to do any good.”

  It was something Valentine had not considered, yet something he knew he probably should have. Something Whitsmith would have seen in an instant. The creature was killing when attacked, killing because it was scared. He had never before considered that something so monstrous could be afraid. Truth be told, Valentine had never really got that close to the creatures here, but he had always thought of them as everyone did: creatures kids had watercolour pictures of in their fact books. That they were animals was not something he liked to think about; that each could have a separate personality was almost beyond his understanding. He had never been a five metre long reptile trapped inside a building, but he supposed if ever he was in that situation he might have been a little scared as well.

  Soon enough they came upon one of the patrols Stone had stationed at the perimeter he had formed. Valentine exchanged brief words with them but there was little they could tell him. He and Cartello continued, entering the final corridor before they would reach the cafeteria. Cartello held her rifle before her as she walked, and Valentine knew if the red crocodile leapt out at them suddenly there was a good chance she could take it down.

  Reaching the door, Valentine could hear an incredible commotion coming from within the room. There were no screams, so he had to assume that whatever was happening in there, it did not involve any of his people. That was something, at least. There were after all only a finite amount of people in this institution and the more they lost the more the work would have to be shared out. Truth be told, Valentine would have liked to have lost a few of their number, for there were simply too many people to deal with. Had he been able to compile a list for the monster to devour he would happily have shown it fifty victims or more. After all, the prisoners had mutinied once: there was little stopping them from doing so a second time.

  He realised then Cartello was staring at him.

  “You want to shut up?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You were mumbling.”

  “Was I?”

  “You do that a lot?”

  Whitsmith had mentioned such to him once or twice and he had always told her she was imagining things. Valentine liked to plan his schemes, but that did not mean he talked them over when he was with company. Just when he was alone.

  “Can we concentrate on the problem?” he asked.

  Cartello smiled grimly at his discomfort and shouldered the door gently. She entered the room in a crouch, keeping her rifle aimed before her, and Valentine followed, crawling upon his hands and knees. The cafeteria was a large room, the old mess hall from the days of the prison guards. It was not where the prisoners had been brought to eat, for no one would have wanted to continue using that place, but it was still large enough to hide a few monsters. He could see several tables overturned and chairs splintered. A pot of stew was strewn across the floor, seeping through the cracks in the floor. There was no blood that Valentine could determine, so whatever staff had been working here may well have escaped.

  Cartello moved slowly across to the service counter, peering behind with her weapon and apparently not discovering anything. She moved about the room more quickly now and returned to Valentine, lowering her gun. “You can get up off your knees now.”

  Valentine did so, brushing down his trousers and wondering what a sight he must be presenting. He knew he was afraid and didn’t like it one bit. Fear was the worst thing a human being could feel because it robbed him of his sense of mental balance and made him look a fool.

  “It’s not here,” the sergeant said.

  “Kitchen?”

  She followed his eyes to the door behind the counter. It was barely over a metre in width but could easily allow a creature to squeeze through. Cartello briefly reflected on the possibility, then raised her rifle once more and moved across to check. Steeling his nerve, Valentine followed.

  The sergeant was just reaching out for the door when they heard a snuffling from the other side. Cartello dived backwards just as the door exploded towards them, the massive form of the red crocodile bounding into the room. Cartello fell behind the counter, her armour dragging her to the ground, and Valentine was left standing in the centre of the room, backing slowly away as the terrible creature regained its bearings.

  He had never before been so close to such a beast. Reading that something was five metres long did not prepare him for such a confrontation; for no watercolour could ever do justice to a monster like the erythrosuchus. It stood as tall as Valentine himself, its tail swishing behind, stroking the counter as though it was being used as some form of sensory organ. The skin of the bulbous body was coarse and scaled, and looked as tough as leather but supple as water. Its legs were thick, powerful stumps ending in vicious claws. Its head was almost too large for it to seem real, and turned from side to side by the aid of a thick, flexible neck. That its name meant red crocodile seemed ludicrous, for it did not resemble a crocodile in any form, other than that it walked upon four legs. Its head looked so much like the venerated tyrannosaurus rex, its body so similar in shape, that to Valentine’s eyes it seemed simply to be a dinosaur with long enough arms to reach the ground.

  The erythrosuchus – it seemed disrespectful not to call it by its true name – shook its head in much the same manner as a dog Valentine had owned many years previously. Then it opened its maw in a wide yawn which revealed a set of sharp tearing teeth stained with the blood of those it had already killed. It was an image Valentine could have done without.

  Fixing its eyes upon him at last, the erythrosuchus snorted as though determining its current plight was entirely down to this man, and Valentine felt himself raise his pistol feebly to focus upon the creature. His hands shook, even with both clutching the gun, and he knew whatever shots he fired would only anger the beast, even if he did somehow manage to land one on target.

  He wondered just what he thought he was doing there facing the thing in the first place.

  The creature lowered its head, the tail rising even as it continued to gently swish from side to side. Valentine could see its eyes carefully watching him, searching for signs of threat. All that kept flashing through Valentine’s mind was what he had read in the creature’s file: that this was an ambush predator. It was used to pouncing upon prey far larger than a human, which meant its muscles would have to be extremely powerful indeed. That it was crouching before him now meant there was nothing Valentine and his peashooter would be able to do to stop it.

  With a roar, the animal leaped and something inside Valentine kicked him into motion. He was upon the floor, scrabbling away, before he had even registered the attack. He felt the huge bulk of the monster pass him by, felt even more acutely the claws which raked his side as the creature’s attack grazed him. Valentine tumbled, thrown off-balance, and went crashing into a group of chairs. He lay there, his back propped against an overturned table, staring at the creature as it began to pace to his right, its head turned to face him at all times while it reassessed the situation.

  Valentine’s resolve screamed at him that shooting the thing might well anger it, that his shot would not even likely connect, but it certainly couldn’t put him in any worse a position than he was already in.

  Raising his pistol, he squeezed the trigger repeatedly.

  The pistol cracked loudly through the contained area, but he had pulled on the trigger too hard, in his fear forgetting not to yank at the thing, and since no wounds appeared upon the beast he could only assume all his shots had missed. A five metre monstrosity stood directly before him and he could not even strike it a glancing blow. He squeezed the trigger again and it c
licked on empty, not even a tremendous sound aiding him to give the animal pause.

  Valentine was suddenly weaponless against the behemoth.

  The report of a gun cracked the air once more and the erythrosuchus staggered, roaring in anger. A second shot sent a spray of blood pluming from its snout, and the creature shook its head as though it thought it was being plagued by a swarm of particularly nasty mosquitoes. Valentine turned wide, anxious eyes to the bar, where Sergeant Cartello had returned to her feet. She was leaning her rifle upon the bar to steady her aim, and he could see blood seeping down the side of her face from a nasty head wound. She looked angrier than he had ever seen her and suddenly Valentine even pitied the poor red crocodile.

  The beast at last seemed to associate the attacks with Cartello and charged her, its four feet loping like those of a dog. Reaching the bar, it reared upon its hind legs, clawing at her with its forelegs even as it snapped its massive maw. Cartello dropped, retreating to what cover she could find, and Valentine heard another shot and saw the beast fall backwards as the bullet tore through its jaw.

  By this point Valentine had all but surrendered the idea of recapturing the animal. A wounded animal would be a foolish thing to throw into the pits, and he did not much care how much trouble Whitsmith had gone to in order to capture the thing: placing it in the pits was not worth his own life.

  He could hear Cartello shouting now, screaming at the animal even as she re-emerged from behind the bar, switching her rifle to an automatic setting before spewing rapid bullets into the thick hide of the beast. Blood spattered the walls and floor as the animal wailed, thrashing about madly. Valentine crawled backwards, aware that even in its death throes the thing was dangerous: if nothing else it would crush him to death should it fall upon him. He watched as the creature attempted to make it to the door, and he felt a small pang of pity for the brute. Having been taken from its home and thrown into a cage, it had escaped only to find itself in alien surroundings. It had fled, retaliated when it had been attacked, and could not find the exit. And now it was being blown apart by some angry woman with a weapon it did not even understand.

  Valentine had never before felt any pity for these animals, even those which died in the pits. It was a new experience for him and he did not like it at all.

  With a final, sickening wail of anguish the creature collapsed and Cartello ceased firing. She walked slowly from behind the bar, her rifle still trained upon the animal. Its body was now a mess of blood and sinew, and certainly the beast now lived entirely up to its name. Valentine got back to his feet, unable to tear his eyes from the dead creature staring sightlessly up at him. So often on this world it was a case of survival: theirs or the creatures’. But he was beginning to wonder whether they had any right to assume they had priority here.

  Cartello fired again, her shot drilling into the beast’s brain, and Valentine jumped at the sound, having believed the shooting to be over. She looked over her shoulder at him with a half amused expression at his reaction and he realised he must have yelped or something.

  “Job done,” she said. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  Valentine continued to stare at the proud corpse. “No.” He took a deep breath, deciding he would have to man up at last. He was in command here and it was time he began acting like it. Straightening his back and meeting Cartello’s eyes he said, “I need to check the cells first. See whether your Private Hunter’s let anything else wander loose.”

  Cartello seemed as though she was going to argue, but conceded the point. They headed from the cafeteria, Valentine giving orders for the mess to be cleaned up. Reaching the staircase which would lead into the large underground cells, Cartello motioned for her to precede him, which was something with which Valentine was in total agreement. They headed down carefully, slowly, but even at first glance Valentine could see nothing else was missing. He checked the cells regardless and found all the locks secure.

  “You’re sure there’s nothing missing?” Cartello asked when he told her everything seemed fine.

  Valentine looked about them slowly. “Everything seems in place, yes. I ... Hold on. Something’s missing all right.”

  “Another carnivore?”

  “More like a bibliovore.”

  Cartello stared at him blankly.

  “Someone who collects information? Like a ... Forget it: bad word I just made up.”

  “Just tell me what’s missing,” Cartello said tiredly.

  “Zebadiah. That erythrosuchus was just a distraction. Your Private Hunter’s kidnapped Zebadiah.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The marker was much as they had expected: little more than a shed in which they could shelter from the rain. It was as large as a spacious caravan and contained only one room, which was cluttered with old tools, rusty containers and spare tyres. While Whitsmith set about binding Torrance to a wooden beam attached to one wall, Hudson had taken the time to sift through the various items the marker stored. The swamp had destroyed most of it, the humidity rusting all the metal and weakening pretty much everything else. She struggled to tear the lids off several boxes but found only nails and sowing equipment within. The storm had not abated and the rain battered the roof of the shed, but Hudson was not worried. She could see evidence of several leaks, but in the main the roof was doing its job. She was more concerned with the creature outside which might have tracked them to the shed.

  Checking her rifle, Hudson wandered over to where Whitsmith was attempting to tear the wrapper off one of her tasteless ration bars. Her clothes were soaked through and her fingers were shivering in the cold, and that was without taking into consideration the woman must have been terrified. Now they had the opportunity to stop for a moment their adrenalin could level off and they would at last come to realise what trouble they were really in. Hudson was herself wet, they all were, but she had trained herself long ago not to be affected by such things. Whitsmith had not suffered the hardships Hudson had known, but all things considered she had held up well out there. Hudson would never have admitted to Whitsmith that she was impressed, but certainly Whitsmith was not the total waste of space she had sometimes felt.

  Reaching into a pouch on her belt, Hudson withdrew what was left of her chocolate bar and tossed it in Whitsmith’s lap. Whitsmith stared with wide eyes.

  “You’ve earned it,” Hudson grunted. “Just don’t go thinking we’re friends now or anything.”

  As Whitsmith tore into the chocolate bar, Hudson turned her attention to Torrance. It was the first time Hudson could see she was actually a teenager. For all her bravado, for all her anger, when her armour was stripped from her she was just a frightened eighteen-year-old girl trembling in the corner. Hudson smiled at the thought that they had taken down one of the soldiers at least, but Torrance only tensed at the silent jibe.

  “Who are you people anyway?” Hudson asked. “Why would Io send soldiers here to this rock?”

  “I don’t know our orders.”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  Torrance said nothing.

  “Whoever they are,” Whitsmith said, her eyes watching Torrance carefully, “they’re connected to that thing out there.”

  “Our only connection,” Torrance said heatedly, “is that we were attacked by it when we found that basecamp.”

  “Io wouldn’t break the law for no reason,” Whitsmith continued. “The penalty for being here is pretty stiff, I hear. The Jovian governments don’t take kindly to trespass.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Torrance snapped. “I know you killed the guards and took over the prison. Doesn’t take a genius to see that. Why has no one come looking for you?”

  Hudson and Whitsmith exchanged glances. It was a question everyone at the prison had asked many times over the last few years. No one had an answer and no one could stop anyone coming, so there was no sense in worrying about it. “We’re not talking about us,” Hudson said. “You have a craft somewhere. You have a way for us to get out of h
ere. You’re going to tell us where it is.”

  “Or what?”

  Hudson considered that and set aside her rifle to draw a six-inch hunting knife from her boot. She saw Torrance’s eyes widen at the sight and kept her movements slow and graceful, allowing the soldier’s imagination do her work for her. Hudson crouched beside her, toying with her knife, placing it upon Torrance’s bruised and bloodied cheek before drawing the blade slowly across what had been such a pretty face not so long ago.

  “We’re too far from the prison,” Hudson said equally as slowly, “for anyone to hear you scream. Then there’s my friend the storm. So why don’t you start telling us what we want to know? It’ll go far easier on you in the end, girl.”

  “We don’t have a craft,” Torrance said, her eyes fixed upon Hudson so she would not have to look at the knife playing across her flesh.

  “Of course you have a craft. How did you get here otherwise?”

  “We crashed. Our pilot ... wasn’t exactly a pilot, but he had more experience than the rest of us.”

  “They sent you here without a proper pilot?” Hudson tried to work some sense from what the girl was saying, and there was only one thing that seemed like even a slightly realistic scenario. “You weren’t sent here, were you?”

  Torrance’s lip trembled, but she said nothing.

  “But why come here if you weren’t sent? Why would soldiers come to this world and crash because they weren’t given a proper pilot?” When Torrance did not reply she pressed the knife against the girl’s throat and said, “That was a question by the way.”

  “We were running,” Torrance said, her eyes forming terrified tears by this point. “We didn’t have much choice. We needed somewhere to hide.”

  “Running? Running from whom?”

  “This base you say you found,” Whitsmith said, her voice dry. “This military base. You say you looked through it for anything you could use. You didn’t happen to find, say, three suits of armour did you?”