How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex

by Mark Paul Jacobs

  Martin yelled loudly in words that Roosevelt could only describe as a native language. The Englishman gripped his spear firmly and lunged forward, directing his weapon upward and toward the beast’s chest. In the blink of an eye, the creature whacked Martin to the ground with one of its two colossal legs, knocking his spear from his hands and down into the pit.

  Roosevelt looked on horrified as Martin lay prone, presumably at the mercy of the shadowy bulk hovering at him. The monster’s head lurched forward, snatching Martin’s torso between razor-sharp teeth. Roosevelt cringed listening to Martin’s bones snapping like twigs. The Englishman’s muffled scream faded mercifully into silence. The beast raised its head high into the air, gnawing Martin’s body until nothing at all remained. The creature raised its head and paused briefly, drawing the remainder of Martin’s corpse down its throat.

  Crazed with fear, Roosevelt chopped at his feet’s bindings with renewed urgency. Finally, he broke free. Turning briefly, he slung the axe back along the ground toward the two remaining hostages.

  “Colonel!” Cherrie shouted.

  Roosevelt rose on cramped, wobbly feet. He scurried over to the makeshift arsenal and pulled his Winchester Browning rifle from the pile. Reaching into his pocket with quaking hands, he pulled out four bullets and began loading. One of the bullets fell to the ground.

  The creature lurched forward in three huge strides, knocking Roosevelt to his side with its crocodilian foot. Roosevelt clung to his rifle and rolled aside.

  “Colonel!”

  The monster overshot its target. It halted and lowered its head, sniffing. The beast swung its gigantic tail around like a battering ram, brushing Roosevelt’s shirt but missing its unseen and undersized assailant by only inches.

  Roosevelt rose to his knee. He raised his rifle, but the only angle available was the beast’s belly. He fired.

  The creature stammered but swung around freely.

  Roosevelt pumped another round into the beast’s neck.

  The beast roared. It sidestepped, knocking Roosevelt onto his backside once again. Swiftly, the monster turned its head, face to face with the prone and vulnerable Roosevelt.

  Roosevelt aimed and fired directly between the monster’s eyes.

  The creature stomped downward, sinking its giant toe-claw through Roosevelt’s trousers. Roosevelt felt a sudden piercing pain in his right shin.

  The monster reared back, howling madly; it dragged Roosevelt by the trouser leg like a rag doll. The beast teetered on the pit’s edge, attempting to regain its balance. The pit’s wall abruptly gave way and the monster rolled over the edge, flinging Roosevelt free but headlong into the pit along with the writhing giant.

  Roosevelt, still dazed and winded from the fall, quickly took inventory of the situation. Next to him, the monster lay on its back gyrating wildly, attempting to right itself between the narrow walls of the pit. His gun was gone, and he was trapped with no way past the beast and in no condition to scale the pit’s wall. Roosevelt rose tepidly to his feet with his shin dripping blood. Beneath him, he noticed the glimmer of Martin’s spear.

  The monster braced its tail against the pit’s wall and pushed itself over on its side. Roosevelt knew he had only mere seconds to act.

  Roosevelt grasped the spear and staggered forward. He lunged with all his remaining strength directly at the beast’s throbbing neck. Then, he fell backward into a heap thoroughly depleted.

  Theodore Roosevelt’s last conscience sensation this night was of witnessing an erupting volcano of gushing blood.

  CHAPTER 29

  Roosevelt woke slowly, feeling like he had just been stampeded by a hundred buffalo. His mind spun and his head ached as if recovering from his worse hangover. Directly above him, the skies brightened with the dawn of a new day, and he was surrounded by the usual jungle sounds at daybreak. He would have thought the previous evening a bad dream, if he were not lying at the bottom of a pit with George Cherrie standing above him administering some sort of first aid to his right knee.

  “George, where is Kermit?”

  “He is fine, Colonel. He is standing guard against predators. Kermit and I heard some prowling jaguars just before sunrise. Come, we have little time. Soon, all hell will break loose when this beast’s corpse begins to rot and every creature in the Amazon closes in for the feast.”

  Roosevelt glanced over at the mound of dark greenish flesh piled next to him. The creature’s once menacing head and torso lay silent and still, swarmed over by a cloud of flies as dense as the forest thicket. Adjusting his spectacles, Roosevelt noticed the creature’s skin covered with swirling black patches—millions of ants pouring forth from the Amazon’s base already hard at work with nature’s inexorable cleanup.

  “How is my leg?”

  Cherrie smiled. “Merely a good rub, Colonel. I wrapped it the best I could. Dr. Cajazeria can tend to it properly once we get back to the river. Come, you must get up and we must get going! I will snap a few photographs, and then it will be imperative we get away from this clearing.”

  Roosevelt, with a little help from Cherrie, rose slowly to his feet. His trusted Winchester lay on the ground alongside what appeared to be the severed claw from the beast’s vestigial forelimb.

  Cherrie grinned. “Kermit thought you might want a little souvenir to take back to Osborn.”

  Cherrie hurriedly unpacked his Kodak model 3A and unfurled its accordion-like lens. He directed Roosevelt to stand beside the slain monster holding Martin’s spear, but Roosevelt refused, instead choosing to stand unarmed with his hands at his hips.

  “No, Mr. Cherrie,” Roosevelt said. “This magnificent creature was a survivor from a different time, another world long since passed to the ever-shifting sands of mother earth. And like any old warrior who had survived the battlefields of life, it would have been better to let it walk away and die of old age and in peace. It certainly deserved a better fate than at my feeble hands.”

  Cherrie triggered his camera. “But we had little choice, Colonel.”

  “Perhaps, yet I somehow feel wholly unworthy. I cannot in good conscience stand proudly as the creature’s glorious conqueror. I will not, and I suppose I never will.”

  The three men hustled from the clearing, entering the jungle to the east. Theodore Roosevelt immediately lagged behind, hindered by an acute attack of asthma and favoring his right leg. After twenty minutes of determined trekking, Roosevelt could not advance any further. Breathing heavily, he sat down and shook his canteen. “I have… about a pint… remaining,” he said. “Here… you two can share what’s left.”

  “No, father,” Kermit said. “You are in much worse shape than George and I. Drink! You must keep your strength.”

  “Kermit, if I am too great a burden… then you must abandon me here. Just leave me my rifle… and a single bullet.”

  “Nonsense!” Kermit pointed eastward. “Father, you are going to get up and walk to the river. George and I will carry you on our backs if we must.”

  “Colonel Roosevelt,” Cherrie lectured sternly. “I just want to make it clear that we will never abandon anyone of our own party, especially you! You saved both of our lives last night, and I will be forever in your debt. Now, enough of this foolishness, we must keep moving!”

  They pushed onward as the morning sun rose slowly behind the trees, and soon, the ground began sloping downward. Ever short of breath, Teddy Roosevelt rested often, and although his shin throbbed with intense pain, he never complained to Cherrie or Kermit. Upon sight of the river’s valley, Roosevelt’s stomach churned and he promptly vomited.

  Kermit caught Cherrie’s eye before pressing forward once again.

  Theodore Roosevelt felt too weak to walk the final three hundred yards through the underbrush and to the river. Propped up by both Kermit and Cherrie, Roosevelt hobbled out of the thicket and collapsed to the ground beneath the Wide Belt’s stone monument. Roosevelt breathed a deep sigh of relief when he noticed two of the dugouts pulled up on shore sur
rounded by Colonel Rondon and the other members of the expedition.

  Cherrie hollered loudly, drawing Rondon’s attention. Rondon motioned to Antonio, and the two men crouched low and scurried toward Cherrie.

  “Colonel Roosevelt is hurt,” Cherrie said. “He needs the doctor right away.”

  Rondon motioned sharply. “Antonio, see the Colonel down to the boats.”

  “Sim, senhor.” Antonio reached down to assist Roosevelt to his feet.

  “It’s so good to see you Antonio. I have never been—” Roosevelt’s eye caught some movement amongst the trees. Looking closer, he clearly saw a native’s face amongst the bushes. “Antonio! Look over at those—”

  ”Sim, senhor Roosevelt,” the ever-polite Brazilian interrupted in a hushed tone. “I’m afraid the Wide Belts have had us surrounded since before dawn.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Disregarding the palpable danger closing in all around them, every man of the expedition pitched in and helped construct a bed of soft palm fronds to comfort Colonel Roosevelt. Dr. Cajazeria rolled up Roosevelt’s right trouser leg and wiped away a blotch of dried blood and bubbling yellow puss using some cloth and alcohol. Cajazeria leaned back, stroking his own chin. “The infection is advanced, senhor. Frankly, I have never seen human tissue break down so swiftly.”

  “Yes,” Roosevelt replied sheepishly. “A mere scrape while wading in the river several days ago. I thought nothing of it at the time. I must apologize for not notifying you before.”

  Kermit Roosevelt, stroking Trigueiro’s scrawny neck, caught George Cherrie’s raised eyebrow.

  “Yes, senhor, but even a tiny wound under these conditions can lead to much bigger problems. Luckily I brought some of the best new ointments known to medicine. I should be able to get you through this ordeal, if your malaria can be kept in check.”

  Roosevelt grinned. “I have great confidence in you, doctor, yet the Wide Belts may have different plans for me.”

  “Sim, senhor, they may yet have the ultimate say whether or not any of us live to see the next sunrise.”

  Lieutenant Lyra pulled two of his camaradas aside and huddled closely. Lyra waved his hand and the men wandered slowly toward the boats. A pair of arrows thumped the dugouts, and the camaradas immediately retreated.

  Rondon raised his pistol and fired a single shot into the sky. He turned to Roosevelt, saying, “Just a little reminder of our capabilities.”

  Roosevelt smirked. “Bully for you, Commander Rondon.” Roosevelt leaned up and glanced around. The natives, who had disappeared into the jungle following the gunshot, were slowly reemerging. “What we have here is a good, old-fashioned standoff,” Roosevelt said wryly.

  Colonel Rondon wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’m afraid that is only partially true, senhor. The natives, in fact, hold a significant advantage in numbers and in stealth. Our only advantage is that they are apparently still leery of our guns. But I am still puzzled why they have not simply slaughtered us, since they have obviously journeyed so far to do so.”

  “Could they have some other agenda?”

  “Once these natives groups set their collective minds on warfare, there is usually very little that can convince them otherwise, and yet I am not quite giving up hope.”

  “Might they be willing to compromise?”

  “We shall see…”

  Roosevelt grabbed his Winchester and cradled it across his chest like a baby. “Well, we will know soon enough if they are in a chatting mood. If not, then I am willing to fight to the bitter end.”

  A solitary native warrior emerged from the jungle. He crouched low and advanced toward the outsiders, jabbering loudly in his native language. The warrior raised and lowered his empty hands in a calming manner.

  Rondon raised a brow. “Well, Colonel Roosevelt, it appears they wish to talk after all.” Rondon turned. “Antonio!”

  Antonio ambled forward. He halted, listening closely to the approaching warrior. He turned to Rondon. “He is pleading that we do not use our ‘thunder sticks’. The Wide Belts wish to send a delegation that includes Chief Tataire and his father.”

  “Antonio, tell him the Chief may speak to us, but we will keep our weapons at the ready while he does so.”

  Antonio conversed briefly with the native and then translated for Rondon. “He says that having the sticks pointed at their warriors is not acceptable. He says they don’t quite trust us and that we may attempt to take Tataire captive with our magic.”

  Theodore Roosevelt cocked his rifle. “That is a risk the chief must be willing to endure.”

  Antonio inquired again, but the native stood silent with his chest pressed forward and his nose held high.

  Rondon shook his head, muttering, “The chief realizes he holds all of the cards.” He waved his hand. “Lieutenant Lyra, order all the men to set aside their rifles.”

  Chief Tataire emerged slowly from the forest followed by his gangly father. A handful of warriors strode forward, forming a human shield around the chief. The awkward delegation halted several yards from Colonel Rondon and the prone Roosevelt. Roosevelt discretely gathered up a few palm fronds to cover his rifle.

  Chief Tataire’s eyes blazed fire. He spoke, translated by Antonio.

  “You have trespassed on our sacred grounds, even though I strictly forbade you to do so. I would have served justice upon you swiftly if I were not cautioned by my father that you were likely still under the witches’ spell and that the spell had to be broken before we avenged our ancestors by consuming your flesh. The elders have counseled me that spells can be passed through your brain mass and its evil can drive warriors insane if their afflicted enemies are not purged while their eyes remain open and their minds are awake.

  “Your escape from our village showed the strength of your spell, but my father has sensed the hardships you have endured along the river and now believes your spell has been weakened enough for us to finally take what is rightfully ours.”

  Tataire gestured widely.

  Roosevelt suddenly noticed at least a hundred armed warriors peering out from the jungle. Roosevelt slowly moved for his rifle, and he saw Kermit, Cherrie, and Lyra doing the same. Dr. Cajazeria drew his pistol.

  “You have insulted our ancestors. The penalty for such a transgression is death!”

  “Wait!” Roosevelt shouted suddenly. “Antonio, tell him to wait!”

  Antonio hollered out to the Wide Belt chief. Chief Tataire turned to his father, who replied with a short whisper. Tataire, looking somewhat disappointed, raised his hand signaling his warriors to stand down.

  “Kermit,” Roosevelt hissed. “Show them the claw. Give the creature’s claw to the natives.”

  “But father, that claw our only tangible proof—”

  “Kermit, please don’t disobey me now! Such proof will be little consolation upon all of our deaths. Just do it!”

  Kermit grabbed the burlap holding the foot-long claw carved from the monster’s forearm. He strode hurriedly toward the chief holding the bag forward as a humble offering.

  Tataire accepted the bag and removed its blood-stained contents. Theodore Roosevelt thought Tataire appeared more confused than curious. The natives surrounding him murmured restlessly. Tataire’s father stepped forward and grasped the claw with widened eyes. “Arawuua!” he cried. Antonio translated the native’s words for all to hear. “The outsiders have slaughtered the sacred Arawuua!”

  The natives jabbered loudly amongst each other, each reaching in and touching the claw with reverence. Tataire’s father offered the claw to his son and then strode directly toward Theodore Roosevelt without an escort. Despite a feeble and overtly-ignored plea from Tataire, the wrinkled native continued onward with his chest puffed forward and nose held high. He halted before Roosevelt, his eyes fixed upon Teddy’s wounded shin. Roosevelt thought he noticed a flash of sorrow within the man’s eyes.

  The man spoke loudly, so that all—including his own son, the chief—could hear.

  “Thi
s, I have not spoken even to Tataire, but my entire life I have been plagued by sleep-dreams that have troubled me to the point of madness. In these dreams I have seen great turmoil come to our people caused by invaders from beyond the earth’s edge. I was most disturbed by a dream telling me that I would be the last man of our tribe to see the Arawuua alive and that no great leaders will emerge from our ranks to confront the outsiders and defend our lands.

  “The great visions tell me that our fate cannot be changed, but we will fight with great honor to slow those who invade our territory, because this is all we can do.”

  Tataire’s father pointed to the east. “The ritual of the Kariati has served our people for countless sunrises, but I believe the Arawuua has now passed over the horizon and into the realm of sleep-dreams. Our world will decline from this time forward until our tribe also passes into memory, like all creatures that crawl upon the land and swim in the rivers and even the great trees that fall and rot into dirt.”

  He pointed down at Roosevelt. “You have killed the sacred Arawuua. You are now a warrior of our tribe in the highest order and are free to come and go upon our lands as you desire, and the members of your tribe will not be harmed.”

  “I am honored,” Roosevelt said diplomatically.

  “But with this honor, we ask you to pledge to uphold the traditions of the Kariati and act with great humbleness, respecting the immense privilege the Gods have bestowed to you. Bragging of your exploits is said to bring great shame upon our peoples, along with flooding and drought.”

  “I pledge with all my heart to uphold your most honored traditions,” Roosevelt replied.

  **********

  The expedition wasted little time climbing back into their dugouts and proceeding northward and down the twisting Rio Roosevelt River, and by nightfall they had already passed through the second gorge officially exiting the Wide Belt’s lands.