Dinosaur Thunder

by James F. David

  Heavily laden, smeared with blood, they trooped in a long row down the valley. As a rifleman, Jacob carried less, his load closer to fifty pounds instead of the hundred pounds carried by most. Crazy Kramer carried two hundred pounds, walking easier than Jacob. They passed through the stone pillars built by the Inhumans to pen their herd in the valley, and into the volcanic terrain. Jacob had his best boots on, repaired many times, but some of the hunters wore moccasins, planning to hunt the jungles.

  The passage through the rock was narrow, seldom trod, and the heavily laden men stumbled frequently. Hot and humid, with no time to stop for water, they hurried, the line stringing out with the slowest in the back. Positioned in the rear, Jacob watched the high points on either side and periodically turned to look behind—he saw nothing. It was late afternoon when they cleared the lava field and were into the cool of the leafy forest. Jacob backed up the last few yards between the lava field and the forest, eyes busy. Just as he stepped from the heat into the shade of the forest, he saw movement. Stopping in the shadow, Jacob studied an outcropping to his right. A lone Inhuman stood there, staring, not trying to hide. Its large eyes, noseless face, wide mouth showed no emotion that a human could read. Jacob stared back, feeling like he should shout an apology and explain that their families were starving, but humans and Inhumans did not communicate, could not communicate. Every contact so far had ended in murder. With no hope of explaining, Jacob turned and hurried away with his stolen meat.

  8

  Unlicensed

  “Dangerous dinosaur” includes, but is not limited to, dinosaurs that are known to have a propensity, tendency, or disposition to attack unprovoked, cause injury, or otherwise endanger the safety of human beings or domestic animals. Any animal designated as a “dangerous dinosaur” must be licensed through the Office of Dinosaur Control.

  —Federal Dinosaur Control Act, Section 47-3-320

  Present Time

  Ocala Dinosaur Preserve

  Florida

  Nick ran the scanner over the carcasses a third time—still no tag. The carcasses lay on stainless-steel countertops ready for dissection. One of the velociraptors was intact, with three holes in its chest. The other was partially shredded. Part of the Ocala Preserve complex, the dissection room’s walls and floor were covered in white tiles. Two stainless-steel sinks were bolted to one wall. Over each island counter were pull-down hoses for hot and cold water and compressed air. The whole room could be hosed down or steam cleaned. The floor sloped toward the large drain in the middle. Banks of lights made the room as bright as an operating room.

  “The tags go here, or here, or here,” Dr. Norman Gah explained, pointing at the neck, thigh, and hips of the velociraptor Nick kept scanning. “Except the only velociraptors in the continental United States are in Texas and Louisiana, not Florida.”

  “They must be hobby velociraptors,” Carmen Wynooski said.

  Wynooski was a senior Dinosaur Ranger, the equivalent rank of captain in the army. Wynooski was five foot five, and 160 pounds. Little of it was fat. With a round face, sun-bleached hair in a ragged pixie haircut, brown eyes, and gray teeth, she looked like Nick’s eighth-grade gym teacher, except not quite as attractive. With skin the color of the bottom of a tarnished copper pan, she was courting melanoma.

  “Every bubble-riding day trader just has to have their own slice of Dinosauria,” Wynooski continued. “And the bigger and badder, the better. These two velocies probably had their owners for lunch. We should start looking for some shredded designer jeans and a pile of bones.”

  “This is a male and a female pair,” Dr. Gah said.

  “They come that way,” Wynooski said.

  “Norman is suggesting a hobby farmer would not pick a male and female, since they will breed,” Nick said.

  “Of course they’ll breed,” Wynooski said. “Velocies hump like rabbits. What the hell do the yuppies care?”

  Carmen was an excellent ranger, an organized and efficient administrator, and protective of her people, but she had enough confidence for two people, and it was annoying. Wynooski was always 100 percent sure, but only 50 percent right.

  “Someone might buy a breeding pair, but it is unlikely,” Dr. Gah said, pulling on plastic gloves and picking up a scalpel. “Let’s see if we can find out where they came from.”

  Dr. Norman Gah was a small man of mixed race—Nick had no idea which races. Slightly Asian in appearance, he had pale skin, with eyebrows as thick and wild as his black hair. Both the eyebrows and hair were in need of combing. With a high forehead and gold-colored wire-rimmed glasses, he had a bit of a mad-scientist look about him.

  “Where the hell else would they come from?” Wynooski asked, leaning against a sink, arms folded across her chest. She wore the cargo shorts version of the ranger uniform: green shirt, beige cargo shorts. “It had to be from around here somewhere. The damn things couldn’t traipse cross-country without getting noticed, not to mention they’d kill everything that crossed their path.”

  Dr. Gah sliced the abdomen of the most intact velociraptor and then reached inside, feeling around. A mass of white intestines spilled out. Ignoring the intestines, Dr. Gah reached inside again, this time with his scalpel, working by touch, and then pulled out a shiny purplish mass—the stomach. When he sliced it open, liquid spilled out and lumps of gray meat.

  Nick’s eyes watered from the sour vomit smell, and he cupped his hand over his nose.

  “Whee-ew!” Wynooski said. “Someone light a match.”

  Dr. Gah ignored Wynooski, sorting the lumps of meat and chunks of bone.

  “Dog, I would say,” Gah said, shoving a few pieces to one side. “Maybe some rabbit appetizer.”

  Dr. Gah shoved a soggy piece of fur to one side, a slimy mass with flecks of white.

  “Let’s see what’s in the other stomach,” Dr. Gah said.

  Dr. Gah dug back inside, this time leaning over, nearly shoving his head into the cavity. Finally, he managed to pull out the velociraptor’s second stomach. While he was opening it, more liquid spilled. Dr. Gah dug out gooey contents, spreading them on the stainless-steel surface.

  “This is interesting,” Dr. Gah said, leaning close, separating chunks from goo. After opening a drawer, Dr. Gah pulled out a pair of large tweezers. He dug into the goo and pulled out a small chunk. “This is a little piece of hollow bone. Do you know what has hollow bones?”

  “Birds,” Wynooski said confidently. “Those bastards are fast enough to snatch a hawk right out of the air.”

  “This isn’t a bird bone,” Dr. Gah said.

  “Pterosaur,” Nick said. “That’s impossible.”

  “Can’t be a pterosaur,” Wynooski said. “Must be a bird. The only two pterosaur colonies on this continent are south of the border—way south. You can’t eat something you can’t get to. It has to be a bird bone.”

  “Ranger, for the first twenty years of my professional life, all we knew about the Dinosauria came from fossilized bones. Often, chunks this size were all we had to work with. Trust me, this is a pterosaur bone.”

  Nick stood close, looking at the bone through his bifocals. Well outside his expertise, all he could tell was that it was hollow.

  “Looks like some skin too,” Dr. Gah said. “I’ll send it to Washington to confirm, but eighty will get you only twenty that this membrane covered a wing.”

  “Where would these two get a pterosaur wing?” Wynooski asked. “KFC? Someone is playing a joke on you two.”

  “Untagged carnivores with pterosaur in their stomachs,” Dr. Gah said, still poking in the intestine goo. “Velociraptors haven’t eaten like that for sixty-five million years.”

  “You scientists just have to make everything so damn complicated,” Wynooski complained. “The same yuppies that owned these velociraptors probably owned a pterosaur. When these velocies broke out of their pen, they had a little pterosaur snack before hitting the road. And that’s the name of that tune.”

  “Look at this,” G
ah said, digging something out of the stomach goo. After picking it up with tweezers, he dropped it in a pan of water, swished it around, and then dried it off with a paper towel. Tossed in an empty stainless-steel bowl, it rattled like a rock. Before Gah could pass it to Dr. Paulson, Wynooski reached in and picked it up.

  “Looks like plastic,” Wynooski said. “Funny-looking stuff.”

  “It was in the stomach with the pterosaur,” Gah said.

  Dr. Paulson stepped over, looking into Wynooski’s palm. “Drop that!” Paulson said, slapping her wrist.

  “What the hell?” Wynooski said, the black bit falling to the floor.

  Paulson picked the material up with tweezers and dropped it back in the bowl.

  “Sorry, Carmen, but if this is what I think it is, you shouldn’t handle it,” Nick said.

  Nick looked at the material, finding it hard to focus on. If this was the same material as on the moon, what was it doing in the stomach of a velociraptor with the remains of a pterosaur?

  “Here’s another piece,” Gah said, still rooting around in the stomach contents. “That pterosaur might have had it in its gizzard.”

  “I want to meet the man who brought these in, and I want to meet him now,” Nick said.

  9

  Brood

  Observation of dinosaurs in the Houston Preserve confirmed that velociraptors lay their eggs in a spiral cluster, in a dug-out nest, and then cover the eggs with vegetation to keep the eggs warm. The velociraptors then guard the nest, night and day.

  —Dinosaur Facts, Houston Preserve Brochure

  Present Time

  Near Hillsdale, Florida

  “No, no, get back in there,” Jeanette said, catching another chick tumbling down the pile of straw.

  The straw pile was alive now with wriggling blue-skinned velociraptor chicks, kicking and flailing, trying to climb up out of the straw. With long whiplike tails, thin legs, and large heads, the chicks had trouble balancing, the straw giving way beneath them, or their heavy heads pulling them nose down. Tails and head high, the chicks kept trying to stand over and over.

  Jeanette repeatedly covered them with straw, trying to keep them hidden, but the chicks would not cooperate. Making a hoarse mewing sound, they made so much noise, hiding them did no good anyway. Another chick slipped through the straw, sliding to the wood floor. Sally sniffed it, the chick continuing to mew, its beak open wide. Jeanette cupped it in two hands and put it back in the pile.

  “This isn’t working,” Jeanette said.

  Sally whined softly.

  “Watch them, Sally,” Jeanette said.

  Stepping outside, Jeanette saw the sun coming up. It was dawn, and Carson had not returned.

  “Carson, you owe me,” Jeanette said.

  Jeanette hurried to the house and got an old Mexican blanket: green plaid with fringe. It was Carson’s, brought back from a trip to Matamoros. Jeanette had always hated the blanket. She took two old towels—the only kind Carson had—and returned to the barn. Sally was faithfully standing watch, her nose nearly touching one of the chicks.

  Working the blanket under the chicks, Jeanette created a high-sided nest; she pulled chicks from the straw and put them in the blanket-lined nest. The blanket made a solid floor, and the chicks stayed put now but made even more noise. Piece by piece, Jeanette pulled the eggshells from the straw. All seven had hatched.

  “Now what?” Jeanette said, the jaws of all seven mewing chicks open wide and pointed at her.

  Sally whimpered, nuzzling Jeanette’s hand.

  Jeanette scratched the dog’s ears. “You want breakfast, don’t you?”

  At the word “breakfast,” Sally barked. Instantly, the chicks stopped mewing and all of them lay flat, eyes open, bodies motionless.

  “Don’t be scared,” Jeanette said, reassuring the ugly brood. “Sally won’t hurt you.”

  Slowly the chicks stirred, looking around.

  “It’s okay,” Jeanette said, putting some cheer in her voice.

  As if one, the chicks popped up and began mewing again.

  “Stand guard,” Jeanette ordered Sally.

  Sally whined, as tired of the chicks as Jeanette was. Upon returning to the house, Jeanette went to the back porch, where they kept Sally’s Purina Dog Chow. Built against the back wall of the house were shelves they used as a pantry. There were two cans of Alpo Prime Cuts on the shelf: one beef flavor, one chicken. Jeanette read the label. The first ingredient on the chicken Alpo can was water. There were also “poultry by-products.” Carson was too cheap to buy Alpo for Sally regularly, but treated her to a can now and then. Sally loved it. Would velociraptor chicks?

  Taking the two cans, Sally’s bowl, a can opener, and a spoon, Jeanette went back to the barn. Sally was still on guard, but trotted over when she saw the bowl. The chicks erupted in loud mewing when they saw Jeanette. Ignoring them, Jeanette opened the can of beef Alpo and dumped it into Sally’s bowl. Sally’s nose was in the bowl before Jeanette had it on the ground. With Sally gobbling her breakfast, Jeanette opened the can of chicken Alpo.

  Sniffing the contents, Jeanette turned up her nose. There was nothing chickenlike in the smell coming from the can. Whatever the smell, the chicks went wild, heads back, jaws open, mewing in their deep coarse way.

  “Patience, you little brats,” Jeanette said, scooping out a chunk.

  The pieces were slimy and square. After tearing off a small chunk, Jeanette dropped it in an open mouth. With an audible series of snaps, the Alpo disappeared down a gullet, and the jaws came open again. Jeanette worked systematically, feeding small chunks to the chicks, trying to give each an equal amount. The chicks never stopped mewing between mouthfuls, but when the Alpo was gone, they settled down, mewing only occasionally. Finally, two flopped down, one with its head on the neck of the other. Jeanette noticed the chicks were pinkish now.

  Her bowl licked clean, Sally sprawled in spilled straw, half asleep.

  “You watch them,” Jeanette said. “I have to run to the store.”

  Sally whimpered an objection but was too tired to get up.

  Taking Carson’s pickup truck, Jeanette drove past the house the police had raided. The front door was open. Jeanette made a mental note to walk over and close the door later. Right now, she had to get to the store and buy a case of Alpo.

  10

  Feast

  When dinosaurs came to the present, we were finally able to answer the question that many of us have been asking since the beginning of recorded history. Dinosaurs taste like a gamey emu.

  —Chef/owner, Dinosaur Café

  Unknown Time

  Neverland

  The smell of barbecuing hadrosaur meat was intoxicating, putting the semi-starved Community in a party mood. Skinny children chased one another, roughhousing in ways they could not get away with on any other day. Too busy and too distracted, their parents ignored the misbehavior. Fragrant smoke rose from three pits where enough meat roasted to feed the entire Community. The pits were just outside the former Home Depot that served as the human fort. Pickets watched from the top of the earthen berm bordering the compound. The setting sun silhouetted guards on the berms, rifles on their hips or across shoulders providing a sense of security. On the other side of the berm, one hundred yards of cleared forest served as a killing field. Each day, older children armed with machetes patrolled the field, hacking and chopping the vegetation back, a never-ending war with nature.

  Torches were lit as the shadows deepened. Mothers with children slung on their backs prepared bowls of roasted corn, potatoes, and yams taken from dwindling supplies. It was an extravagant meal, but few grumbled and none grumbled out loud. The reverend declared there would be a feast, so there would be a feast. At least in this, Jacob agreed with the reverend. There was little enough to celebrate in the dwindling Community.

  Despite the rambunctious children, sprinkling of babies, and pregnant women, the Community was dying. Child mortality was high, one out of six women died in
childbirth, and the hard work of farming and hunting made the men old beyond their years. The few humans who had lived to be old women and men helped as best they could, setting up tables, benches, and chairs, some too infirm even to do this much. Still, there were smiles all around this day, because today there was plenty.

  The successful hunters would sit with Reverend at a special table facing the rest of the Community. Normally, the places on his left and right were reserved for his four wives, but today the wives shifted along the side tables to make room for the hunters. Despite having four wives, Reverend had no children of his own, but his wives, all widows, had ten children that he called his own.

  Jacob carried chairs to the front, taking them from inside the former Home Depot, his wife, Leah, carrying another. Their two girls tagged along, one hanging on to Leah’s apron, the other skipping ahead. Beatrice was six, and Bonnie three. Bea had her mother’s curly brown hair, Bonnie taking after her father with straight hair so dark brown, it was almost black. Bea had her mother’s delicate features, with a petite nose and a small mouth. It was early for Bonnie, but she might have been unlucky enough to get Jacob’s large nose. Both girls wore their best clothes; sky blue dresses that hung below their knees. Leah fashioned the dresses from cloth she found in the ruins of the city. With the help of Grandma Reilly, Leah sewed her first dresses, giving them to the girls for Christmas. Few in the Community knew anything about sewing, so Grandma Reilly was passing the skill down so that it would not be lost when she died. Leah was her best student and had also crafted the loose dress that she wore under her apron. Made from kitchen curtains that Jacob found in a collapsed house, the light yellow dress with blue cornflowers was the envy of the other women in the sewing classes.

  “What’s wrong?” Leah asked as they put the chairs down and turned to go back for another load.

  “What?” Jacob asked, pretending to look cheerful.

  “I can tell something’s not right,” Leah said.