Dinosaur World Omnibus

by Adam Carter

  Honeywood placed one foot on the first step to test it. The wood held and did not creak, proving the shack was built of sturdy materials, and by an expert hand. She glanced to Garza for affirmation, who nodded back his assent, so she pressed on. She was at the door within seconds and with Garza keeping watch she set to examining the lock. It was a simple catch, there was no actual key needed; but then she supposed it just needed to be complicated enough to keep the animals out.

  Glancing back to Garza to indicate she was ready to go in, Honeywood lifted the catch and pushed the door inward.

  The door opened to a cramped yet homey room. The lighting was poor, and while Honeywood noted a bulb in the ceiling she did not dare throw the switch. She assumed there must be a generator out the back, although could not hear the hum. She wondered whether the shack had been abandoned long ago, and that the generator no longer worked. Taking a cautious step into the shack, her eyes began to adjust and the details were brought out to her.

  There was a table at the far side of the room, two rough constructions which passed for chairs. The room was decorated with two paintings, both chipped and faded, which might well have come from the institution. The swamp was never kind to such things, and seemed to despise art in any of its forms. Honeywood could see a kitchen area, with a section of cupboards. The door was open on one and she saw several items of cutlery and a saucepan, all but destroyed in this coarse atmosphere. Everything in the room was built from scraps of recycled material or torn down trees; she could recognise leather torn from seats and hinges ripped out of other doors to name but two. There was one other door, leading to another room, and since there was no indication that this room was used as a sleeping area she assumed the door led to the bedroom. The bathroom, it seemed, was simply the swamp outside.

  “I don’t see any food scraps,” she said as Garza joined her in the shack.

  “No,” he said in a tone which indicated it was obvious why there shouldn’t be. “There are a lot of animals out there, Ashley. Any of them got wind of there being food in here they’d work their way in somehow, catch or no catch.”

  Honeywood did not like the way Garza kept making her feel stupid all the time, but supposed she had slugged him for saving her life so let him off this one. She made her way slowly across to the other door and placed her hand upon the handle. She turned it slowly, silently, and pushed her way inside.

  There was a crude cot within, formed of a base of wood covered with some form of vines and moss. There was an actual sheet which must have come from somewhere, and several storage cupboards. Honeywood supposed everything had to be stored away so the swamp air took longer to deteriorate it. Glancing round slowly, Honeywood found nothing of interest, and took the lid off a box to find a small stack of well-worn hardback books. Damp had found its way into them and Honeywood did not linger on them. It seemed whoever owned this shack spent at least some time here, however.

  “I don’t think this place belongs to Seward,” Garza said.

  Honeywood turned a raised eyebrow his way and he tossed something at her he had pulled out of a drawer. She caught the item and realised it was a woman’s underwear. It was clean too, if a little damp, which meant whoever lived here was coming back. No one liked to do the washing, after all, and it was an age-old practice to never throw away a clean item of clothes.

  There came a shout from outside, and the report of a shotgun. Honeywood and Garza stared in frozen horror at one another, and then bolted for the front door. They were pretty certain neither Aubin nor Stiggs had brought such a weapon with them, and knew whatever was happening out there it could only be trouble.

  Honeywood exploded through the door and was down the steps without touching any of them, her booted feet slamming into the thin mire and bringing her into a crouch from which she was ready to leap into her attacker. She could hear Garza clumping clumsily down the stairs after her, but put the man from her mind as she focused on the scene before her. Stiggs and Aubin knelt on the sodden ground, hands clasped at the back of their heads. They looked a little shaken, but Honeywood could not see that they had been harmed in any way. Before them there stood a woman holding a shotgun whose barrel was pointed skyward. Honeywood assessed her quickly. She was aged somewhere in her forties, maybe fifties, and was dressed in sturdy trousers tucked into her boots. Her hands were gloved, even in the heat, and the material of her clothes seemed lightweight, allowing the air to circulate. She wore a flat-cap which kept her eyes in the shade, and clearly knew well how to survive the swamp.

  The woman fixed Honeywood with cold eyes which sparkled with passion. It was an odd contrast and Honeywood decided this woman, whoever she was, really wasn’t pleased at the company.

  “Thought that shot might get yah attention,” the stranger said, lowering the gun so it was kept handy but not focused upon anyone in particular. “Now what are ya doin’ in mah house?”

  Honeywood could not place the accent and was curious about how she had got here, because she certainly didn’t recognise her from the prison. Not that Honeywood was familiar with every prisoner who had left the institution, however.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Honeywood said slowly, truthfully. “Put the gun down.”

  “Yah don’ get ta tell me what ta do in mah own home, sweetheart.” The woman was not angry, was almost amused in fact. Honeywood desperately wanted to tear the gun from her hands and beat her around the head with it. “Who are ya’ll?”

  “My name’s Ashley. Abe, Cassie, Stiggs.”

  “Stiggs? What kinda dang fool name is Stiggs?”

  “Who are you?”

  The woman seemed about to refuse the question, but decided it couldn’t hurt any. “Hargreaves. Sally Hargreaves. This here’s mah home and I’ll thank yah kindly not to go messin’ with it.”

  “We don’t want anything to do with your home,” Garza said, annoying Honeywood that he wasn’t letting her handle this. “We’re just looking for a man named Seward.”

  “Seward?” Hargreaves asked, a small smile playing at her lips. “And what yah be wanting Garret for now?”

  Honeywood’s heart skipped. “You know Garret Seward?”

  A twinkle came to the woman’s eye. “Ah guess ah do, sweetheart.”

  Honeywood’s eyes narrowed and she felt a sudden and intense loathing for this woman.

  “We think he might be in trouble,” Garza pressed. “We’ve tracked him this far and thought he might be inside your home.”

  “Ah take it he’s not?”

  “No.”

  Hargreaves shrugged, shouldered the shotgun and strode past them. “Well ah suppose ya’ll’d best come in then. I’ll put a brew on.”

  She disappeared up the steps and Honeywood was aware Garza was waiting for some form of response. All Honeywood felt however was loathing and anger; with perhaps a little confusion. She did not know what this woman had to say for herself, but it was clear Seward was not here, and that meant they should continue their search through the swamp. There was no sense in wasting time when they could be searching.

  “You coming?” Garza asked as he headed after Hargreaves.

  Grumbling, Honeywood followed. She definitely did not want to set foot in that shack once more, yet a part of her had to know the truth. Because if her suspicions were right she wanted more than ever to find Seward now; so she could take up a big rock and beat him with it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Oh, make yourselves comfor’ble.”

  The shack was not built to house a family, and the air was somewhat oppressive with so many bodies inside. Stiggs sat in the corner, staying out of everyone’s way, and Aubin held her tea in shaking hands; it wasn’t every day she had a shotgun pointed in her face. Garza and Honeywood were more leery of their situation and kept their wits about them, although in truth Honeywood was wound so tight it was a miracle she didn’t snap back and strike the woman across the face. Hargreaves had supplied them all with tea and pottered about, tidying up to make spac
e for them all. Honeywood could tell Garza wanted to press her with questions, and literally bit through her lower lip in order to stop herself from trying to take a chunk out of their hostess.

  “So,” Garza said conversationally, “when was the last time you saw Seward?”

  “Oh, Garret came by ‘bout two weeks back,” Hargreaves answered with a smile, her eyes distant at a memory. “Thought it might ah bin him now, but it turned out to be you fellas.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Garza said diplomatically. “Are you expecting him by soon?”

  “He don’ keep to a schedule, sweetheart. Jus’ comes an’ goes when he pleases. Comes through on his hunts and foragin’. Always drops by to say hi.”

  “That all he says?” Honeywood said with surprising calmness. She ignored the shot cast her way by Garza.

  “Well,” Hargreaves said with a slight sigh, “Garret does have a way with words, but we don’ do a lot a talkin’, sweetheart.”

  Honeywood growled deep within her throat. Since they had entered the shack Hargreaves had removed her hat and her tunic to reveal long curly scarlet locks and a trim well-muscled figure. She was far from what Honeywood would have considered female perfection, but she was ten times what Honeywood was in appearance. Honeywood had always known her own shortcomings in the looks department, but Seward had never seemed to have even a wandering eye. Honeywood had felt herself blessed by being involved with such a man, and now it seemed she had been played for a fool.

  “Why ya want him any road?” Hargreaves asked.

  “His café was destroyed,” Garza said. “Some form of theropod tore through it, possibly a pack. We saw a spoor going into the swamp and we came in after him.”

  “Mighty kind a ya’ll.”

  “No one tosses a burger like Seward.” Garza’s attempt at levity did not go down too well and the resultant silence was oppressive. He decided not to do that again any time soon.

  “You’re not from the prison,” Honeywood said, almost an accusation. “Who are you?”

  “Prison?” Hargreaves asked with a frown.

  “Prison,” Honeywood confirmed acidly. “Seward did tell you he was an escaped convict, right?”

  Hargreaves looked even more confused.

  Honeywood pushed her advantage to the limit. “There’s a prison a day or so from here at a march. We’re lifers, sentenced to this mudhole for eternity, whether we’re guilty of petty crimes or grand larcenies. No one checks on us, no one comes at all. This world’s off-limits, illegal to even come here. So we’re shoved here and abandoned, with just the minimal staff in guards.”

  “And they let ya’ll out on day trips?”

  “The guards are dead,” Honeywood said flatly, enjoying this. “Most of them died slowly. There are a lot of killers a day’s march away, a lot of fellas with anger issues. Anyway,” she said with a smile, “that’s us. Where are you from?”

  “Ashley, this isn’t helping,” Garza hissed. She met his gaze coldly and she could see he understood the origins of her anger. He wanted to complete the mission however, and she honestly couldn’t say she was all that bothered any more. She looked round her group and wondered why they were even all here. Honeywood was tracking her lover, Garza wanted to become a hero, Stiggs had been ordered and Aubin just wanted to get out of the prison by all accounts. But they were all here because they needed their chef back, and Honeywood found she no longer cared much for it. There were other people who could cook, even if she wasn’t among them. It seemed a stupid reason for carrying on with this trudge.

  “You know what?” Honeywood said, rising, “I’m done.”

  “Where are you going?” Garza asked.

  “Back to the institution. I have fights to train for, I don’t have time to be chasing off after idiots like Seward. He’s probably back there already, laughing at us right now.”

  “Well he sure as hell won’t be laughing when you find him,” Garza said, “so why don’t we carry on ‘til we do, yeah?”

  Hargreaves followed some of this, and addressed Honeywood with a frown. “You sweet on mah Garret?”

  “Sweet on him?” Honywood rounded on the other woman and took slow aggressive steps towards her. Hargreaves edged away slowly until her back touched the wall and Honeywood stared daggers down upon her. “You’re lucky I don’t break your face – sweetheart. And you’re welcome to him. If you do happen to see him tell him from me …” Her mind blanked and she found no words coming into her head. It was the stupidest time in her entire life for her to be speechless, and she was fully aware everyone was staring at her. But she could not stop the thoughts flying through her mind, the image of Seward together with this woman, rutting in the bed of vines in the very next room while Honeywood was back at the institution or the café patiently waiting for her man to return. Honeywood wasn’t in love with him, she would never have made the mistake of falling in love again; but if that was the case why couldn’t she find the words?

  She spun on her heel and pushed her way out the stupid stifling shack. Her throat was tight and she felt tears stinging her eyes, but she would sure as hell not let the others see her like this. She was a pit fighter, she had personally beat the living hell out of dinosaurs twice her size; she wasn’t some stupid schoolgirl with a crush on the cool kid in the playground. She wasn’t in love, she hated the very idea, and had made it perfectly clear to Seward that what they had was just physical.

  She stopped at the edge of the swamp and gazed up at the sky poking through the thick veil of trees. She would look at the stars with Seward and they would pray for a release. Now all she could see was the huge orange ball of gas, the blazing red eye staring back at her in silent mocking laughter.

  “Screw you!” she shouted, hurling a rock high into the sky. She did not see it land but heard it do so with a dull plop. The great eye continued to laugh at her foolishness.

  Honeywood took several deep breaths, her throat still tight and painful. Seward just wasn’t worth this, no man was. He wasn’t worth even half of what she was.

  And she refused to admit that, even in passing thought, she had ever loved him.

  “You OK?”

  Honeywood had not heard anyone approach, and wiped at her eyes even though she had no intention of turning round. She ignored the question and it was not repeated, and she wished Aubin would just leave her alone. She knew the girl hadn’t moved anywhere, however, knew she was waiting as though she was her new best friend or something. At last Honeywood spun to face her, her emotions afire, her every intention to shout out all her aggressions upon the girl. When she saw Aubin, however – standing there nervously, eyes downcast, her entire body language indicating she was herself about to burst into tears – Honeywood’s resolve melted and any anger towards the young woman, to anyone, was lost to the wind.

  “No,” Honeywood said at last. “No, I’m not OK.”

  “I don’t think you should be, ma’am,” Aubin said in a small voice. “I think you have a right to be angry and I think you have a right to be upset. But the swamp’s a dangerous place, ma’am, so you go and shout all you need and I’ll just stay here and watch your back.”

  Honeywood stared at her in silent incomprehension. She had never given this girl any indication that she wanted to be friends, had shouldered her with her own pack, had treated her as badly as she could; and still was Aubin treating her like a human being. She wasn’t laughing at her misery, wasn’t grateful Honeywood had at last got her comeuppance. Instead she was being genuinely sincere. Honeywood had no idea what she had done to garner such loyalty but knew she didn’t deserve it.

  “I think,” Honeywood said slowly, “the most dangerous thing in the swamp right now is me, Cassie.” She tried a small smile, although it came out more of a scowl. Shaking her head, she sat upon the ground and tossed a stone into the black waters. “God, what a mess.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And stop calling me ma’am.” She realised she probably shouldn’t have snapp
ed, and Aubin didn’t quite seem to know what to do next. “Sit down,” Honeywood said, patting the ground beside her. After a moment’s hesitation Aubin complied, and looked the most uncomfortable she had ever seen her. In fact she looked a lot younger than Honeywood had always imagined, and for the first time since meeting her she genuinely wondered about her. “Cassie, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen, ma’am.”

  “My friends call me Ash. Or at least they would if I had any. Most everyone calls me Ashley though.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The corners of Honeywood’s lips quirked uncontrollably and Aubin returned the smile shyly. Perhaps the girl was good for lifting her spirits after all. “Hold on,” she said, frowning, “if you’re only nineteen and we’ve been here five years, that means you were shipped out here when you were a minor.”

  Aubin shrugged.

  “What did a fourteen year old do that was so bad they dumped her on this rock to be forgotten about?”

  Aubin gazed out across the swamp and Honeywood knew she had hit a nerve. She didn’t look as though she was going to cry, didn’t even look annoyed, which were two ways she had bettered Honeywood already. She just looked as though she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Sorry, I should know not to pry,” Honeywood said.

  “No, it’s fine. To be blunt, Ashley, my father abused me for three years and one day I clobbered him over the head with a table lamp.” She spoke so flatly and embellished nothing of the telling that Honeywood knew the girl just wanted to get it out of her lungs as fast as possible. “Did I mean to kill him? No idea. Do I regret it? No.”

  “Whoa, back up a … They don’t ship minors off to backwater penal colonies for that.”

  “They do when her father’s brother owns one.”

  Neither woman spoke for several minutes, the only sounds those of the insects chirruping, the frogs croaking and the distant crocodiles sliding into the brackish waters. Everyone on this world was a convicted criminal, with varying degrees of horror to such crimes. Honeywood did not know everyone’s reasons for being in this swamp, but whenever she met someone new she fully accepted they were likely a murderer, rapist or just a generally violent thug. It took a lot for a court to sentence someone to this place, or at least that was the theory. Honeywood had learned never to ask too many questions of a person’s reason for being here, since she knew it would taint her view of them. Garza for instance was a big, aggressive man. He had likely killed someone, perhaps was even here on rape charges. As closely as she was being forced to work alongside him Honeywood really didn’t want to know. It was why she deigned not to make friends at the prison. She simply didn’t want to associate herself with criminals, and since there was no one else on this entire world her only alternative was to keep to herself as much as possible. In the pits she fought monsters, but in reality she knew the creatures were at least just doing what came naturally to them.