by L. Z. Hunter
A mosquito dared land on his neck. The proboscis stung as it punctured his skin. The bugs in the Congo were giant compared to the itty bitty things back home. He almost slapped at the insect filling its belly with his blood, but refrained.
He was going to have to take the shot. It’s what Marksman would have done. Point, aim—keep both eyes open—and shoot. He could do it.
He had to do it.
He needed to do something.
Inside his head, he counted down. Three. Two. One. . .
Powell heard a gunshot. The velociraptor’s head bounced back on its neck. A hole was in the center of its head. Blood oozed from the wound. It opened its mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Powell expected the beast to scream. No sound came out of it. Instead, it fell forward. It’s tiny front arms, with bowed talons, did nothing to break the fall. It went down hard. Its body crumbled to the ground in a heap.
Trees shook. Branches parted. John Marksman stepped onto the path. “Is everyone okay?” he said.
Something was coming up fast behind them.
Powell felt renewed. He pivoted and raised his weapon.
Stacy Jennings came at him. “Lower your weapon,” she said, aiming her rifle at him.
Powell realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled and dropped his arm to his side. The nightmare was far from over, but he couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful. “Where are the others?”
“It’s just us,” Stacy said. She lowered her rifle and walked past Powell.
“Ian?” Claire said. “He went back into the jungle looking for all of you. Did you see Ian?”
Marksman and Stacy looked at each other.
“We didn’t see him,” Marksman said.
Powell noticed that Marksman’s pants were ripped open along the thigh. A gash in his leg was visible. He was bleeding, but not profusely. There were cuts on his forearms and a slash under his left eye that went from his ear to the bridge of his nose.
“We can’t leave him behind,” Powell said. “We’re not just going to leave without him, are we? And I heard Charlie. I know I heard Charlie Erb not that long ago.”
“Where are you headed?” Marksman said, as if Powell had not spoken at all.
“We’re dropping them off at a village and then continuing for the river,” Claire said.
“Okay. Let’s keep moving then.” Marksman checked the ammunition in his rifle. He seemed satisfied. He retrieved a bandana from one of his pockets and tied it around his thigh, pulling tight on the ends. He lifted his rifle slightly in his hands, ready to fire at anything he didn’t like. He appeared ready, or as ready as possible under the circumstances.
“But, but Erb and Ian?” Powell said.
“Charlie’s dead,” Stacy said. She didn’t look much better off than Marksman. She had cuts on her face and forehead. Her right sleeve was shredded. She had three lacerations across her forearm, as if something sharp swiped at her, and she’d thrown her arm up in defense. “I never saw Ian. If he was back there somewhere, he can’t be alive.”
“Did Ian know the plan? Was he going to meet with you at the river?” Marksman said.
“Yes, he was,” Powell said.
“Then that’s where we’ll find him if he’s still alive. There’s no point going backwards. We need to keep going forward,” Marksman said. “He’s well-trained. If he couldn’t find us, he’d head that way. The river.”
It made sense, Powell thought. He hoped Marksman was right. He wanted Ian to be alive.
Everyone began walking forward. Powell saw Stacy limped, favoring her left leg. It might be a sprained ankle, or broken bone.
Powell stopped at the dropped velociraptor corpse. He looked down at the body. It was so big. Not at all what he expected. The skin that had once looked greyish blue, now was puke green with light brown tiger stripes. Its eyes were still open and were about the size of his palm. He couldn’t look away from the talons. They looked like long bone daggers. They would easily rip apart flesh.
Stepping over the dinosaur, Powell looked back. They hadn’t made it very far. Time was against them. He wondered how many raptors were dead, how many had Marksman and the other mercs killed?
Most of all, Powell wondered, how long would it be before the sun set, and how many more raptors were still alive and stalking them?
Chapter 16
John Marksman let Akia and Ruh lead the way. They swung machetes with skill. The long, sharpened blades sliced through the branches, hacked through the leaves and cleared the path cleanly.
Powell held his handgun in one hand, his finger so close to the trigger. He felt far more confident with Marksman and Stacy in the group. It was hard not to. It took some of the pressure off, lightened the responsibility some. Who was he kidding? He never wanted to be in charge.
They weren’t moving fast, but they were making pretty good progress. If velociraptors followed them, the animals kept their distance. It didn’t stop Powell from scanning the brush. Everything looked like it might be a predator. He knew his mind played tricks on him. The heat, humidity, and the pressure overwhelmed him. It took tremendous effort to put one leg in front of the other. It was almost mechanical, reflex. He knew if he were alone, there was a good chance he’d never survive.
Powell remembered when he was young and in his bedroom, and he’d hear a noise. It always sounded like it came from either the closet or the darkest corner of the room. His mother never let him sleep with a light on. His curtains were always drawn closed. The light switch was by the door, at least twelve feet away from his bed. Any other boy might brave the distance and make a break for the switch. Throwing light over the darkness would surely reveal nothing sinister in the room. Not him. Powell chose to pull the bedspread over his head. He’d cry, keeping his sobs as silent as possible. He wanted to close his eyes against his fears, but couldn’t. For hours he would lie in bed, shaking, waiting for whatever lurked in the closet, or the darkest corner, to come and devour him. It never happened. Eventually, he’d fall asleep. The point was, he didn’t fight. He didn’t face his fear. He hid under a blanket.
Without the mercenaries beside him now, he feared it wouldn’t be long before he reverted to his childhood ways. That scared him the most.
The rain started coming down. Not hard. It was a mist that almost hung floating in the air. It was like he could part the moisture with the wave from the back of his hand.
A gunshot rang out. It could have come from behind them. Everyone stopped walking, on sudden alert from the sound.
Powell shook his head. “I thought you said the others were dead?”
Stacy and Marksman exchanged looks. Powell couldn’t read it clearly.
“Were the others dead or not?” Powell said.
“I saw Charlie go. The raptor was hiding beneath leaves. It was so quiet. I was a few feet behind him. I never saw it there, waiting. And then all at once it sprang forward. It’s mouth was so much larger than I expected. It bit down on Charlie’s neck. There was so much blood. He didn’t have time to scream,” Stacy said.
“He wouldn’t have screamed,” Marksman said. It wasn’t meant as a contradiction, just a clarification that perhaps defined the kind of soldier Charlie Erb was.
“And Becky?” Claire said.
“There were two of them. She was against a tree. She’d either run out of ammunition, or couldn’t reload. She looked terrified,” Marksman said, staring at the ground. “I couldn’t get the shot. They were right in front of her. Their talons kept moving, and clicking together, and it was like they were smiling. I swear, it looked like they smiled, enjoying her fear. She’s dead. I saw her die. And then I shredded them. My ammo cut them to pieces.”
“Ian?” Powell said. “Who saw him die?”
Stacy and Marksman looked at each other again. They didn’t move their heads. Their eyes just found each other.
“That’s him back there,” Powell said.
“Stay here,” Marksman said. “No one moves unless you have to. O
therwise, give me five minutes, and then get out of here. Meet at the river like planned. Find a boat and get on the water and we’ll catch up with you there. Five minutes,” he said, and looked at Stacy, “not a second more. Understood?”
She nodded. “Hurry.”
Marksman ran through the trees. Powell lost sight of the man after only a few steps. It was almost as if Marksman were a magician who had just passed through a solid wall.
Five minutes would feel like an eternity. “We should have some water,” Powell said. He knew the supplies they carried were limited. He took bottles from his backpack and passed them around. He set the backpack down on the ground and sat on it.
He wished he had some concept of time. It felt as if hours had passed by. They might have.
His legs were weak and rubbery. Getting up in five minutes might prove harder than expected. His body was sore. Had been since the initial hike from the SUV.
“How are you, Claire?” Powell needed a distraction.
She shook her head, but was smiling. “I don’t feel like this is happening, that it could really be happening.”
He set his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shrug it off. Instead, she touched his hand with her fingers.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said. It was an empty promise. He wasn’t fooling her. The way things looked, he didn’t believe it either. It was something to say, something that needed saying.
“Hopefully we’re close to one of the villages. If we can at least get these people home…”
“We need to let them loose. We have ourselves to worry about,” Stacy said.
“I’m not having this conversation again,” Powell said.
“I’m just saying. This is their home. They know the land. They have ways of dealing with the dinosaurs,” the merc said.
Powell looked at the natives. Each of them seemed to watch the exchange. “If they thought they were safer on their own, don’t you think they would have taken off? They’re just as frightened as the rest of us.”
“They’re just kids,” Claire added. “Teenagers. Hell, not even!”
Stacy pursed her lips. “I learned one thing over the years. A job is a job. At the end of the day, though, it’s about me. It has to be about me. If I get killed out here, who is going to care?”
“I would care,” Claire said.
Stacy shook her head. “You don’t even know me. You don’t know any of us.”
The tension was thick. Powell held out his hands, a calming gesture that didn’t seem to diffuse a single thing. “Look, the villages are on the way. We have the map.”
More gunshots sounded behind them.
Stacy gripped her rifle. She looked toward the trees, and then at the path. “Come on. We’re moving.”
“It hasn’t been five minutes,” Powell said.
She waved them forward with the barrel of the rifle. “We’re going. Let’s go, let’s go.”
Powell stood up, put on his backpack. He wasn’t comfortable with this. “We should wait.”
“But we’re not,” Stacy said. “John knows where we’ll be. Look, you haven’t seen these things. They’re vicious. They’re relentless. They’re—”
It crashed through the trees.
Powell stood still, staring. His jaw dropped, mouth wide open.
The velociraptor had black eyes. Its skin was dark, grey. It let out a roar as it stepped onto the path. Its voice vibrated, rattling around inside its throat. The red tongue shot forward as if trying to escape the thing’s mouth. Thick, white saliva dripped from the row of top teeth. It stood up tall, tiny arms outstretched, talons barred.
He almost laughed. His mind had done a complete one-eighty. Despite everyone talking about dinosaurs, he’d accepted their word as truth, but until now, until this very moment, he didn’t believe it.
Stacy stumbled backwards. A rock on the ground tripped her. She fell backward. Her ass hit the mud. Bullets went flying. Fire burst from the muzzle with each rapid shot. Nothing came close to hitting the raptor.
The young girls were screaming. They hugged each other. Their faces were pressed tight together, cheek to cheek. The three young men took steps backward, toward Powell, as if they forgot about the machetes they held in their hands.
A machete seemed like little more than a pocket knife at this point.
Stacy aimed the rifle at the dinosaur. Her hair flopped in front of her face, partially covering her eyes.
Powell could peripherally see Claire, but didn’t want to turn away. He couldn’t look away.
He was a frozen statue.
Frozen.
He was a child again, a young boy in his dark bedroom hiding under blankets so the monsters might think he was someplace else.
The velociraptor was fast, stepping on Stacy’s leg with a three-toed foot. The talons on the toes spiked through her thigh. Blood spurted from the wound. Stacy lost her grip on the rifle. Her head went back as she opened her mouth to scream. She never had the chance. The raptor drove its head forward, teeth bared, and bit into Stacy’s face. From where Powell stood, he heard the crunch of bone as Stacy’s head was crushed between the raptor’s jaws.
The raptor set the other leg on Stacy’s chest. It pushed against her body, as it lifted its head, ripping Stacy’s head off of her shoulders. A string of spine came out of her back and was still attached to the back of the skull. Blood and flesh, muscle and torn meat dripped off the severed vertebrae along with dangling strands of sinew and bone.
Powell remembered his gun. It was too late for Stacy, but he remembered it. He took aim. It was a clear shot. He kept both eyes open, with both hands on the grip. He tried to keep the handgun steady. He felt like he was aiming directly for the raptor’s head. He pulled the trigger. The gun kicked a little in his hand. It was far louder than he’d expected. The raptor didn’t look hurt. It chewed on Stacy’s head. White bone and bloody meat fell out of its mouth as it chewed, and then slowly it turned and looked directly at him.
It was like it knew Powell meant it harm, that Powell was actually a danger to it.
It spat Stacy from its mouth and walked over what was left of her body.
The young girls shrieked. Claire pulled them out of the way. It looked like they’d disappeared into the woods. It felt like everyone was gone. There was just the raptor…and him. They were the only two living, breathing things on the path. Powell never lowered the handgun. He let off another shot.
The bullet nicked the raptor’s shoulder. It stopped and stood up tall. When it roared, that tongue flapped around inside its mouth. The thing’s face was covered in blood. Stacy’s blood.
Powell shot at it again.
This time he’d hit it. A hole was in its neck, just above what might be considered the collarbone. Blood oozed out of the wound.
The rain came down harder. It wasn’t a heavy deluge, but it was raining good.
Powell had nowhere to go. He needed to stand his ground. He was right, the others were gone. They hid in the thicket. They were safe.
He was not going to stay under the blanket and hope everything worked out. Powell dropped one of his arms to his side. He raised the handgun a little higher. He stood sideways, aiming.
The raptor took a step toward him.
Then another.
Powell had no idea how many rounds were loaded inside the weapon. He couldn’t recall how many times he fired the gun. There wasn’t any time to check. He thought he’d fired once, maybe twice. Three times would have been the most. He’d missed. He’d nicked it. He’d hit it in the throat. Three times.
The guttural noises coming out of the raptor’s mouth completely unnerved him. He knew his arm trembled, his hand shook, and his aim was for shit. It was why he waited. He might not know how many rounds were left but he knew there at least had to be one left. At the very least.
The closer the thing got, the bigger his target. It would be harder to miss.
If he didn’t kill it, though, he was as good as dead.
>
Dead might be fine.
Dying the way Stacy just died was not. He could not fathom the pain she felt. He did not want to get eaten.
It took another step.
A gunshot erupted from the trees.
Claire. She used one of her bullets. She hit it, too. She hit the raptor, but hadn’t killed it. It stopped approaching, but only long enough to scan the trees.
Shit, he thought. “Here I am!”
He didn’t want the thing going after Claire and the young girls. He wanted them safe. He was doing this—taking a stand against a prehistoric reptile and fighting childhood fears so they would all be safe. “Over here!”
The raptor’s head snapped forward. Its dilated eyes locked on him.
Thunder boomed from unseen clouds above the forest canopy.
They didn’t need another storm. They didn’t need another hurdle to overcome. Everything was against them. Nothing worked with them. They needed some luck. A splash of luck, a touch of hope to hold onto.
The raptor ran at him.
There wasn’t much gap between them.
Powell counted off two seconds and then fired, pulling the trigger once, twice, three times.
The bullets grouped on the raptor’s sloped forehead. He worried they might have ricocheted off the crocodile like skin. Until the raptor just fell forward. Its chin slammed hard on the soft ground. The thing never looked away from Powell, though. Not until thin eyelids fluttered and closed over black eyeballs.
Powell didn’t want to go anywhere near it. He’d seen enough horror movies in his youth. The hand always shot forward and grabbed onto the lone survivor’s leg at the very end. Only, this wasn’t a movie. The raptor didn’t have a hand. Powell wasn’t a lone survivor, and this was far from the end of the story.
Chapter 17
“It’s dead,” Louis Powell said. He kicked at the raptor’s head with the toe of his boot. He spoke quietly, hoping those hiding in the trees and bushes heard him. He didn’t want to yell. If the raptors hunted in packs, then it was likely more were nearby. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard gunshots from either Marksman or Ian Ross. He wanted to believe they were still alive, on the run, and headed for the river, too.