by Steve White
I don’t think he intended to eat Chance; I suspect he was defending his new-found prize and Chance was about the size of a raptor or even a princeling in his eyes. Either way, he charged Chance, kicking up a fan of filthy water while I yelled a warning and unslung my shotgun. Everyone moved with a the grace of dancers.
I swung the weapon up to my shoulder and snapped off the safety in one seamless movement.
Chance effortlessly brought the Ruger up and cycled the weapon.
The Prince swung open his jaws and bore down on Chance with an athlete’s poise and elegance.
That’s how I remember it. I’ve never been able to watch the footage so I imagine it was a lot more running and screaming and panic. The Prince was about half as big again as Chance and despite his mass, moved with a predator’s grace. His roar was like a volcano erupting in its mouth. It dwarfed the bark of Chance’s shot, which went wide anyway. I wonder if Chance knew he could never get off a shot that would slow the Prince, let alone kill it, or if he just jerked the trigger on some primal instinct of self-preservation.
Those are just the things that haunt me at night.
Like it matters.
The Prince’s maw engulfed Chance’s head. The rex threw his long jaws back and forth, lifting Chance off his feet, sending water flying.
I fired. The slug hit the Prince at the base of the tail and he staggered, letting go of Chance with a metallic screech. He turned towards me, perhaps at the sound of the shotgun, and roared. I was looking down his throat about the same time I fired again and the shell blew out the back of the dinosaur’s skull. His occipital condyle was splinters, his parietal calcium kindling. He dropped like the proverbial stone.
The only sound after that was the settling water and my own breathing. The smell of gunsmoke joined that of mud and rot.
As my mind and the smoke cleared, I finally caught up to the fact that Chance was no longer moving. I yelled his name and staggered over to where he lay. He was face down in the water but when I rolled him over, his head sort of stayed there, twisted at an impossible angle. There were great gouges in his chest.
I slumped into the water, only able to take solace in the fact that it was probably a quick death.
There were other sounds, mainly those over the comms. Lots of firm but understanding voices demanding sitreps. Was Chance dead? Yes, yes he was. Was the T-rex dead? Yes, very much so. His lifeless eyes were staring at me even as I spoke.
I needed to get out of there, apparently, because that adult Tyrannosaurus, attracted by all our noise, was making his way down the course of the stream.
In shock, I didn’t really have the strength to lift Chance out of the water, but help arrived and the Victor’s huge rotors shook the tree canopies overhead. I didn’t have my Bergen so I didn’t have the poncho I wanted to wrap him in but the crew chief, who had that look on his face of sad disappointment but complete lack of surprise, had one and we dragged Chance’s body into it. Cocooned in plastic, he ascended from the forest and was pulled on board the tilt-rotor. I was next, lifted out on a jungle penetrator with the crew chief.
As we headed back, we passed over the rex who was about to have himself a square meal. All I could think was, If only we’d taken the time to shoot that damn turtle…
Alessandra has become an experienced scout and been back to the Mesozoic to hunt Tyrannosaurs on numerous occasions; such are her qualifications that she is a required travelling companion and scout for many hunters.
Now that you have completed this guide, please make your selections:
CHINLE
MORRISON
BARAHIYA
DINOSAUR PARK
HELL CREEK
Once you have made your choices, please notify MHC® and await confirmation of your selection.
GOOD LUCK AND GOOD HUNTING!
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