The Dinosaur Battle Of New Orleans

by Dane Hatchell

  The noise level coming from inside the Square was much higher than normal.

  “Did you know the architects designed Jackson Square after the seventeenth-century Place des Vosges in Paris?” Breaux asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” Bridget said. “I just assumed they built the Square around the statue of Andrew Jackson after the Battle of New Orleans in eighteen-fourteen.”

  “The statue itself didn’t go up until eighteen-fifty-one,” Breaux said. “The Battle of New Orleans officially started on December fourteenth, eighteen-fourteen. Ironically, ten days later on the twenty-fourth, Great Britain and the United States signed a treaty that effectively ended the War of eighteen-twelve. News was slow to travel then, and Congress didn’t ratify the agreement until February sixteenth, eighteen-fifteen.”

  “Are you a big history buff?” Bridget asked.

  “Me? No, not particularly. I read up on the history of New Orleans when I moved here. I, uh, have sort of a photographic memory. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you.”

  “You’re not boring me. At least you aren’t trying to buy every piece of art here so you won’t miss the experience.”

  “Okay, Bridget. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Read your fortune, sir?” A young woman with porcelain white makeup on her face asked. Her ashen hair flowed down from underneath a purple scarf wrapped around her head. Black lipstick perfectly covered her plump lips.

  “No, thank you,” Bridget said.

  “Wait.” Breaux slowed his pace and veered over to her table.

  “Have a seat, and Madam Tiffany will read your past and tell you the future,” the fortune teller said.

  “Dr. Breaux?” Bridget protested.

  “Just one minute,” he said to his student. “Madam Tiffany, if I told you I had just traveled back in time millions of years ago, where I dodged dinosaurs and other extinct creatures for weeks, would your cards see that?”

  “Of course not. The cards only deal with reality,” Madam Tiffany said.

  “Then I suggest you find another line of work. Because,” Dr. Breaux had leaned in and locked gazes with the fortune teller, “it’s true.” Right now, he wasn’t in the mood for someone to manipulate his emotions—try to play on weakness and give false hope. Life was too short for such silliness.

  “Dr. Breaux, Pat O’s is calling. I’m going with or without you.” Bridget let go of his hand and soldiered on.

  Breaux lifted a pointed finger to Madam Tiffany, and said, “It’s true.” He turned and hurried off after Bridget, not waiting for a response.

  He caught up with her right at the west gates leading to the Square. A much larger crowd than regular tourists lined up around Andrew Jackson’s statue. Chanting from one group began, and then another group responded with their rebuttal. The two sides fervently strained to drown out the other.

  “What’s going on in there?” Breaux asked.

  “I think that’s the group called Tear Them to the Ground. They’re protesting Andrew Jackson’s statue.”

  “Andrew Jackson? I understood the reasoning behind removing the Confederate statues, though I didn’t take a stance on the issues. The City removed those statues a few months ago. Why would anyone want General Jackson’s statue taken down?”

  “Jackson owned slaves, and the statue is a sign of white supremacy, or so says Rev. Martin Scott, the leader of Tear Them to the Ground. The group is protesting tax dollars spent on maintaining any remnant of white supremacy.”

  “Woah, taking a stance of that magnitude is going to open a huge can of worms. Seems a bit extreme, but I don’t have the history of being an African American to fully understand that perspective.

  “Bridget, do you feel that way? Do you want to see historical figures torn down because of a past way of life? The statue doesn’t honor Jackson for owning slaves. He was the leader in the Battle of New Orleans and the seventh president of the United States, for God’s sake.”

  “Me, Doc? I don’t allow any wrongdoing of the past affect my way of life today. I don’t have that kind of time to waste worrying about what I had no control over. I worry about today—what I can do to move my people and me forward. That said, it doesn’t bother me the Confederate statues are gone. But, someone needs to draw a line how far things should go. I think removing the statue of Jackson is extreme.”

  Bryan Breaux liked to think of himself as being open-minded. But if he looked deep inside, he rarely made more than a cursory effort to put himself in the other person’s shoes—to see and feel reality from an opposing viewpoint. “I think in the past I’ve been too quick to judge others. My new lease on life has made me aware that I’ve got a lot of soul-searching to do.”

  “I do some of my best soul-searching over a cocktail,” Bridget said. “We’re here.”

  A tall man wearing coattails in front of Pat O’leary’s spotted them. He tipped his hat and motioned with his arm for them to come right on in.

  *

  Dr. Breaux sat on the patio of Pat O’Leary’s at a small table near a brick wall with a couple of ornamental trees growing in front of it. Tiki torches placed strategically on the walls added ambiance.

  The humidity hung thick in the Louisiana afternoon, but a nearby fan kept enough artificial breeze blowing on the back of his neck for it not to spoil his afternoon.

  In the center of the patio, which had nearly every table made of glass and iron filled with tourists and locals, a flaming fountain majestically set the mood. Streams of water falling from the copper and stone fountain acted as gentle background music mixed with the hum of others having a good time. The brilliant flame shooting amongst the cascading streams would add a warm glow to the sky as darkness fell.

  “Too bad we couldn’t get a seat in the piano bar,” Breaux said. “You can hear those people laughing and singing from out here.”

  “That place is too crowded. The main bar too. I’m enjoying the patio,” Bridget said. “You aren’t having a good time?”

  “Oh, I’m having a great time. As evidence, I’m on my third hurricane,” Breaux said. “I guess all this rum makes me want to let loose a bit.”

  “Don’t get too loose. You might fall apart,” Bridget said and giggled. “There’s four ounces of rum in each one of those drinks.”

  “Do you know why these drinks are called hurricanes?”

  “No, I guess because we live in the south and these drinks are potent enough to blow you away like a hurricane.”

  “Why they are potent, the name came from the glass Pat O’leary’s serves the drink in. Notice,” he ran his finger from the top of his drink to the bottom. “The glass replicates an old hurricane lamp.”

  “That’s interesting, but that takes away some of the mystique of the drink for me.”

  “Not to me. Knowing that bit of added history enhances my appreciation for the hurricane. Plus, I’m a scientist. I like to be informed,” Breaux said.

  “I’m a scientist, and I like drinks that blow me away.”

  The two laughed.

  “I think these hurricanes are getting the job done,” Breaux said before picking up his drink and poking the straw between his searching lips.

  Something whizzed by his head, catching his right peripheral, and landed on a branch of one of the nearby ornamental trees.

  At first, Breaux thought a bat had flown by, because of the way the creature flapped its wings. It was small—about the size of a sparrow. From that distance, and what the professor could make out, it wasn’t either a bird or a bat.

  The creature didn’t have feathers or hair. Its tan wings looked leathery like a bat’s, but its distinct teardrop shaped head and long beak appeared to be more bird-like. The body, though, had both front arms and rear legs, though the front arms were a bit shorter. Wings folded upward at the front arms, jutting up over the creature’s back.

  “Bridget?”

  “What, Doc?”

  “Over there, the tree on the left. Do you see what’s sitting on that bran
ch?” Breaux asked.

  “Sorry, Doc. My contacts were bothering me, and I took them out when we got here. I can see up close, but my distance is blurry. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Breaux said. “It almost looks like a bat with a bird’s head, but—”

  The creature dove from the branch and landed on the table, right between Bridget and Breaux.

  Both sat silent. Their gazes fixated on the uninvited guest.

  “Doc, that’s not a bird,” Bridget said.

  “I know. It’s a reptile.”

  “A reptile with wings?”

  “Yes, a reptile with wings. It’s a pterosaur.”

  “A pterosaur?”

  “Yes, and pterosaurs have been extinct for millions of years,” Breaux said, a familiar feeling crept up his spine. Unnerving fear just like he had felt when the quantum transporter had sent him back in prehistoric times.

  The joyful notes wafting from ivory keys striking metal strings of the piano ended in a thunder of screams coming from the inside bars.

  The tiny pterosaur left its table perch and flew to a fence rail, where it greedily devoured an unsuspecting brown gecko.

  All heads jutted toward the carriageway where the slate flooring had led them to the patio.

  A creature as big as a medium-sized dog scurried from the carriageway onto the patio and slid to a halt. It looked like another reptile/bird combination; with the head light blue and looking lizard-like on a short neck. A brown feathered crest on its crown matched the feathers on its body. It had small wings on short arms that would make it impossible for it to take flight. Most noticeable were the claws on its hands and feet. The nails looked deadly enough to shred alligator hide.

  “That’s not a rooster,” Bridget said as the patio patrons pointed and gasped.

  “It’s a velociraptor, and pound for pound, it’s one of the deadliest creatures to ever exist.”

  The velociraptor stood high on its back legs and darted its gaze about until it chose its target and sprang for a kill.

  An aging man, identified as a tourist by his souvenir t-shirt and a collection of Mardis Gras beads around his neck, howled like a stuck pig when the velociraptor landed on his head.

  The dinosaur’s leg claws sank into the man’s chest just below his chin. The front claws slashed in wild abandon, tearing flesh, slinging blood, and gouging his eyes out.

  Pandemonium erupted, with screams and cries from terror-stricken patrons who had one of two means of exit from the patio blocked.

  The man’s wife was on her feet crying out as much as her husband. She, though, wasn’t going to let the velociraptor win without a fight. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she repeatedly smashed the dinosaur with her purse, all the while cursing it with words that would make a sailor blush.

  Breaux and Bridget were both on their feet—trying to determine their next move!

  The professor estimated there were at least three hundred patrons searching to escape the patio. The carriageway had filled, as some party-goers streamed in from the front bars, cutting off the view of the poor man fighting for his life. The mass hysteria ensured a great possibility for self-induced injuries.

  “This is crazy, Doc. We need to get out of here!” Bridget yelled.

  The brick patio walls were at least fifteen feet tall at the lowest point. There wasn’t a way to make a quick exit. Although, a bar area close to one wall had a sloping tin roof that Breaux thought they might reach by climbing from a table top.

  A horrific snarl cut through the panicked cries, and a dinosaur about half the size of a grown man fast-stepped onto the patio from the carriageway. It was a theropod, probably a troodon. It had long, slender legs with raised sickle-shaped claws on the inside of feet. The head and body were reptilian, stretching at least six feet in length, and over three feet in height. Its olive-green skin had golden stripes marking its spine.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Bridget,” Breaux said as people scattered away from the approaching troodon. “We need to get to the other side by the bar.”

  “But there’s no exit there, and that dinosaur is between us and the bar!”

  “Look at the roof. It’s lower. We can reach it by climbing from a table.” Realizing time was short, he sprinted and grabbed a tiki torch on the wall. The anemic flame would do little to scare the dinosaur. How Breaux wished he could use the flame from the fountain for their defense. Turning the screw and lengthening the wick, the flame burned four times bigger. It would have to do. “Get behind me,” he said as he rejoined Bridget by their table.

  Dr. Breaux kept the torch near his chest as people fled past him, careful not to accidentally burn anyone or himself. He and Bridget were the only people heading in the troodon’s direction, and that didn’t go unnoticed.

  The dinosaur’s eyes widened, and it hissed out a cry of warning or delight, eager to meet the oncoming humans.

  With the path clear between them, Breaux held the torch at arms’ length to keep the predator at a distance.

  “That flame’s not big enough to kill it,” Bridget said.

  “I’m not trying to kill it. I’m just trying to keep it away so we can make our escape.”

  As Breaux poked the flame in the troodon’s face, close enough to singe its nostrils, the dinosaur pulled back in obvious fear. It also let out an unusual cry that was either out of pain or being pissed off.

  Didn’t matter. Breaux quickly side-stepped with the torch keeping a less than comfortable distance between them and the dinosaur.

  The troodon’s ire increased, and it repeatedly snapped at the torch each time it poked its way.

  “We’re almost there,” Breaux said. “Push the closest table underneath the edge of the roof.”

  Standing his ground, Breaux kept the torch waving to-and-fro in front of him. The screech of iron on slate told him Bridget would soon have a means for their escape in place.

  The troodon bobbed and weaved like a feisty boxer.

  Breaux wondered how long before the dinosaur would move past its fear of the fire and attack.

  “It’s ready, Doc!” Bridget called out.

  “Get on the table and onto the roof!”

  “But what about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a way.”

  The troodon pulled its head back and waited for the torch to sling by, and then jutted its head and bit the torch on the handle below the flaming head.

  Not good! Breaux tried to jerk it from the dinosaur’s mouth, but he didn’t have the strength. The troodon tried to pull the torch from his grasp, but he held on for everything he was worth. This was a bad situation that he didn’t see getting out of. At least Bridget would get away.

  A vodka bottle smashed in front of the dinosaur, wetting it and the floor underneath it. Almost instantly, the torch ignited the liquid and engulfed the troodon in a yellow-orange flame.

  “Now we can leave together,” Bridget said. She stepped onto a chair and onto the table.

  Breaux let the torch fall from his hand and scampered over to the table. Bridget had just pulled herself up on the roof when he reached the chair.

  A few seconds later, the two sat from above and watched as more dinosaurs rushed onto the patio. A sea of people fought to get out. He didn’t know if the other exit was blocked or if in the turmoil human bodies had plugged the only means of escape.

  They stood on the roof and cried out for others to follow, but the ensuing carnage of dinosaurs tearing people to shreds prevented anyone else from following their path.

  “It’s…horrible,” Bridget said. “I can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be happening.”

  Breaux watched with his jaw hanging down to his chest. He didn’t know how to rationally accept the situation. There was no denying, though, as blood splattered and death cries reverberated off the brick walls, that this was all too real.

  Bridget stood by his side. “Dr. Breaux…what have we done?”

  Chapte
r 4

  Kathy Stevens and Jayla Watkins dutifully met, consoled, and directed the airline passengers as each stepped off the rescuing vessels. The Coast Guard boats and tugboats had docked at the Canal Street Ferry Terminal and unloaded their human cargo.

  Most of the passengers went through the motions like glassy-eyed zombies and headed like cattle to a staging area close to the paddlewheeler Southern Queen’s dock.

  Kathy was in shock but managed to function on auto-pilot. In her mind, she kept seeing Captain Wesselman standing on the plane’s wing, waving. The monstrosity appeared from the river in an instant—its alligator-like mouth engulfing the captain, and just like that, Wesselman was gone.

  Dave Einstein had called the creature a dinosaur. A mosasaur, if she recalled correctly. Dinosaurs didn’t exist in modern times; especially in the Mississippi River. Seeing was believing, though. And that flying creature that smashed into the engine was from prehistoric times, too.

  Sharon Henderson had abandoned her duties as a flight attendant and spent her time consoling co-pilot, Jim Hall. Sharon was near twice the first officer’s age and had a notorious reputation for going after young meat. Her display of comfort was well over the top.

  Leave the poor boy alone, old woman, Kathy thought. If Sharon weren’t so efficient at her job, Kathy would have no reason to like her at all.

  The passengers had gathered in a semi-circle around Hall, who had to adjust the crooked reading glasses on his ears disheveled by Sharon’s hugs. Looking at his electronic tablet, he said, “Uh, ladies, and gentleman. We’ve just been through the biggest scare of our lives. I am pleased to say we’ve made it safe and sound to the earth, thanks to the valiant efforts and expert flying of Captain Thomas Wesselman. God rest his soul.

  “As to what or where the creature who took the captain’s life came from, I have no explanation. If I hadn’t seen the sudden attack with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Hopefully, the Coast Guard will find whatever did this and destroy it.”