The Dinosaur Battle Of New Orleans

by Dane Hatchell

  The scene was scarier than the flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz, which, terrorized him as a child and still gave him goosebumps when he thought about them at night.

  SKEER-AK!

  Kevin shot his gaze toward the piercing cry. At first, the mass heading for him looked like a low flying jet. As his eyes focused, he realized it was another prehistoric creature, similar to a pterodactyl, but much larger.

  Who dat say who dat when I say who dat? Kevin felt the icy grip of fear take hold of his spine.

  The quetzalcoatlus landed ungracefully ten yards away.

  As it uprighted itself, Kevin thought it was the strangest looking creature he had ever seen in real life or even in the movies. It was at least twenty feet tall. Its front arms served as front legs, and the pointed wing tips folded neatly away from the ground. The neck stretched from its body to its skull by over ten feet. Brownish hair covered the neck and body. Its stork-like beak didn’t appear to have any teeth when it opened its mouth to let out another shriek. The beautiful green crown on its head looked out of place—like it had been painted on.

  The only animal the creature reminded him of was a giraffe. Both had the same long necks. If a giraffe had a beak and wings, it would look similar to what stood before him now.

  The quetzalcoatlus’ bobbing head stabilized, and the creature’s beady eyes locked onto him.

  I’m in deeper doo-doo now.

  SKEER-AK!

  Kevin reached into his survival vest and pulled out his Sig Sauer M11. A pilot carrying a sidearm while not flying over enemy territory had always seemed stupid. The pistol grip had a way of digging into his ribs during flight. Now, he was glad to have endured that discomfort.

  The quetzalcoatlus tested its claws on the concrete and eased toward Kevin.

  He squeezed off two rounds toward its torso, and the creature did not indicate that it’d been hit. The hulking mass of overgrown turkey might not feel much from a 9mm bullet. Kevin would have better luck at stopping it if he could shoot it in the eye. There was little to no chance of doing that.

  It was time to leave.

  Looking for an escape path, he saw a fuel truck in front of the fuel depot next to the freight terminal. That and the dying fire from his F-15 gave him an idea.

  He fired two more rounds and dashed over to the ejection seat not far away and found the attached emergency kit. Unsecuring the kit, Kevin shot two more times and made a bee-line for the fuel truck.

  SKEER-AK!

  At this point, he wasn’t sure if the bullets harmed the creature or just annoyed it. Didn’t matter as long as he—

  CRACK! The quetzalcoatlus had extended its neck and snapped its six-foot beak right at the edge of Kevin’s backside. The beak made contact and tore off a piece of his flight jacket.

  This was no time to turn and fight. His feet found extra speed, and the pain in his left foot went numb. There was no way of knowing how fast the creature could run, and Kevin kept waiting for that beak to chomp down and cut him in half.

  SKEER-AK!

  The pterosaur’s shriek lifted Kevin’s butt like the rockets underneath his ejection seat. The fuel truck loomed a short distance away. He was so close now—so close!

  Pointing the pistol behind his head, Kevin fired three random shots—trying to give the creature pause now that it was this close.

  Still amazed he hadn’t been eaten, Kevin finally made it to the truck and put the white behemoth between him and the prehistoric creature.

  SKEER-AK! The quetzalcoatlus’ shadow cast over in front of Kevin as he hid by the driver’s side of the truck. He holstered his pistol and unhooked the fuel nozzle, locking the handle.

  With emergency kit in hand, he stepped over and hopped up into the cab.

  To his relief, the ignition key was in place. He started the engine, with a huff of black smoke coming out of the front exhaust.

  The diesel’s roar held the creature at bay for the moment. But Kevin knew that wouldn’t last long and had to go all in on his plan. He pulled a lever on the dash, and the PTO engaged the fuel pump.

  From the side mirror, he saw a growing pool of aviation fuel as the nozzle gushed. He essentially rolled the dice that he could escape before static electricity or something else ignited the fuel.

  Opening his door, he held onto the roof as he stood on his seat. He waved his free hand at the pterosaur, and yelled, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

  Kevin slinked back in as the quetzalcoatlus’ ire pushed it past uncertainty. He rolled down the window and flailed both arms about. “Over here, big bird. Over here!”

  The quetzalcoatlus took the bait and sauntered over near the driver’s side.

  Kevin climbed over the console onto the passenger’s seat. Just as soon as he opened the door and dropped onto the pavement, the pterosaur’s beak jabbed through the open window, reaching across to the passenger’s side. Had he still been in the cab, he would have been shish kabob.

  Petroleum light components stung his eyes and irritated his nose as his boots splashed onto the concrete. He had to get far enough away before lighting this candle, or he’d be committing suicide. But, he had to hurry. The creature would leave the area and come after him once he caught its eye.

  SKEER-AK!

  Too late. It had spotted him. Kevin opened the emergency kit as he ran and pulled out the flare gun. He wasn’t even a hundred feet away when he aimed and fired.

  The flare popped as it jettisoned forward, streaking like a Roman candle, and landing in the growing lake of fuel.

  Fire spread as fast as lightning, engulfing the fuel truck and the quetzalcoatlus in raging flames.

  SKEER-AK! The creature’s cry was different this time; its rage replaced with pain. It spread its massive wings as it readied to fly.

  Kevin watched in awe at the incredible sight. The wingspread must have been over thirty feet! But this was no time to watch the firebird. The fuel truck’s safety valve screeched to the sky as heat overpressured the tank.

  Kevin took out running again and headed toward one of the terminals. His left foot really started to hurt now, but he dared not slow and take any chances.

  When the fuel truck exploded, it dropped Kevin to his knees. He rolled on the ground, bumping his head on concrete, and came to rest on his back. A fireball rose into the sky as high as the moon before consciousness faded to black.

  He woke not long later and felt a knot on the back of his head. It was sore to the touch, but his head felt clear. Good thing he hadn’t been any closer to the explosion.

  The small burning heap next to the truck indicated the pterosaur’s fate.

  Good.

  Kevin rose and headed to the nearest terminal door when a window above crashed, and a woman and what resembled a dog fell to the pavement. The woman’s head burst like a melon on impact.

  As he neared, it became obvious that the animal was no dog. The creature looked like a combination of a bird and a reptile. It had a light blue colored head and looked lizard-like on a short neck. A brown feathered crest on its crown matched the feathers on its body. It had small wings on short arms and deadly looking claws on its hands and feet.

  There was no saving the woman. Kevin aimed his pistol as the velociraptor shook off the fall and stood. He fired the remainder of the fifteen round magazine until the slide sprang back and locked.

  Pterodactyls and now this…dinosaur? Kevin looked around as if waiting for someone to pop up and clue him in on what was going on around there.

  A human scream came from the concourse above. Whatever brought pterodactyls outside the tower had deposited invaders inside the airport too.

  Kevin dropped his empty magazine and slapped in a full one. He pulled back the slide on his pistol and chambered a round.

  It looked like the fun was just beginning.

  *

  “Everybody, get away from the windows!” Ritchie Lemoine yelled as he dropped his binoculars and dashed for safety.

  A pterosaur hit the glass, shatterin
g an 8x8 foot pane into a million pieces. The creature’s body was larger than a man, and its triangular-shaped head and bat-like wings made it look twice as big.

  Mark Chaney and the other three controllers spilled out of their chairs, rushing to the other side of the tower.

  Dan Lewis made the unfortunate choice to take refuge by the window where the next prehistoric monster crashed through. The pterosaur’s beak hit him dead center in his back and poked all the way through his chest.

  The poor man’s eyes bulged as he flailed his arms. His mouth formed silent words, and his face shook uncontrollably.

  “Dan!” Mark yelled and darted over to his co-worker’s side.

  The first pterosaur was unconscious or dead.

  But the one who had killed Dan was alive and well. It flapped its wings and shook its head, trying to free itself from the dead body. Its right claw struck Mark as he neared—sending the man backward and falling on his butt.

  “Everyone, evacuate the tower!” Ritchie commanded.

  The window behind him shattered, and the devious supervisor keeled over face-first as the third pterosaur smashed its way into the control tower.

  The other two controllers followed orders and dashed to safety down the stairs.

  Mark wasn’t a hero, but four years in military service had taught him never to leave a fallen comrade.

  Ritchie was at least alive; evident by his cries for help.

  Mark’s lip craved for a fresh dip, but that would have to wait.

  Looking around, he searched for anything he might use as a weapon. Nothing caught his eye until he saw the cleaning supply storage closet.

  He ran over and opened the door. The arsenal of weapons included chlorine bleach, an old-fashioned mop and bucket, two types of brooms, a dustpan, and a variety of glass cleaners.

  Wishing he had his AK-47 or his M1 Garand, he had to improvise with what was available. The mop had a wooden handle, whereas the two brooms had thin metal handles.

  Mark grabbed the mop by the head and at the other end of the handle, bringing it down over his thigh. The mop handle snapped in two, just as he planned, leaving a bruise on his leg that hopefully would have time to heal.

  He now had a three-foot makeshift weapon. The splintered end sloped enough at an angle that it would do some damage penetrating flesh.

  Pulling the dustpan from the door shelf, he bounded to Ritchie’s aid.

  The creature on top of Ritchie wasn’t moving, but the other who had killed Dan flapped its wings and screeched.

  For the moment, Ritchie was better off hiding underneath the pterosaur than getting within striking distance of the other creature.

  It occurred to Mark, approaching the pterodactyl, with a stick and a dustpan for weapons, seemed incredibly stupid. The opened door leading to the stairwell beckoned him to run and save his behind now.

  “Help!” Ritchie cried.

  Dip, don’t fail me now, Mark thought and swallowed a gulp of tobacco spit for a surge of nicotine to make him invulnerable.

  The pterosaur spread its wings when he approached.

  “Get! Get!” Mark yelled as he swiped the empty air between them with the broom handle. His best chance to win this situation was to get the over-sized lizard-bat to fly out the same way it had come in.

  The pterodactyl attacked first, snaking its head forward, and biting at the stick.

  Mark moved the stick to the side and slapped the beak with the dustpan. He didn’t feel like one of the three hundred Spartans, but he knew this country boy had the grit in him to survive.

  “Ritchie, I’ve got this thing busier than a cat trying to cover turds on a marble floor. Roll out from under that beast.”

  Clawed hands extended about a quarter of the way down the creature’s wings. The right claw made a swoop for him, bringing the rest of the wing with it.

  Mark jabbed the claw. The pterosaur squawked, but the wing caught his side and knocked him down.

  “I’m almost out,” Ritchie called.

  The next thing Mark knew, a wide-open pointed beak headed straight for his face. He held the broom handle in both hands and stopped the deadly weapon’s advance by shoving the stick between its maw.

  The creature was strong. Mark’s arm muscles screamed for relief. The head slowly edged ever so closer.

  “I’m up,” Ritchie called. “Looks like you’re in a bind. I’ll get help. You hang in there, buddy.”

  Mark wanted to hurl a few curses but couldn’t spare the breath. His arms were just about to give out as the beady eyes of the monster neared.

  Hank Williams Jr., Mark’s spiritual guide, whispered in his ear. A country boy can survive!

  Mark dug the dip out of his lip with his tongue and spat in the beaked lizard-bat’s eyes.

  It made a hellacious caw and pulled away, shaking its head, and flapping its wings.

  But it loomed over him madder than a wet hen and ready to go in for the kill.

  I’m coming home, Momma. Mark held the broom handle out in feeble defense.

  A fourth pterodactyl crashed through the window and took down the threatening menace.

  With no time to waste, Mark rolled off his back onto his feet. He bounded to the stairwell and began his descent.

  Counting his blessings, he sang as he pounded down each step: We’re from North Dakota and South Louisiana. We can whip a pterodactyl’s ass with a dustpan and broom handle. A country boy can survive. A country boy can survive!

  Chapter 9

  Sam Miceli had his back against the safety rail on the top deck of the paddlewheeler Southern Queen. The bright red waterwheel pushing the boat up the Mississippi River splashed droplets of water on the back of his neck. New Orleans jazz, thick with the long reach of a throaty trombone, filtered up from the deck below.

  A pleasant breeze cooled his forehead on the sunny day. His tongue felt a bit thick, though. Man, could he use a shot of gin right about now.

  The wad of bills in his left front pocket pressed annoyingly against his thigh. Lady Luck had been kind to him earlier. He found the hot dice on the craps table in a private gaming room on deck one.

  His last name, Miceli, was the only ticket he needed to get the invite to the illegal action. Being the grandson of the infamous Carlos Miceli, The Godfather of the New Orleans Mafia, had its privileges.

  Three well-dressed goons stood not far away directly in front of him, with their backs against a wall that supported the observation deck. Each had their arms hanging down, with their hands folded neatly by their crotches.

  The hoodlum in the middle wore a black fedora hat and chewed gum with the left side of his mouth open. He gazed snake-like with his head cocked to the side.

  The other two looked like they could have been brothers. Both had dark sunglasses riding rosy, veinous noses on pockmarked faces. Their slicked back black hair shined with oil.

  “You got something you want to tell us, pretty boy?” the middle goon asked.

  “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Sam said.

  “Not that it matters. My name’s Percy Ray. The other two are the boys.”

  “Pleasure to meet all of you. But, no, gentlemen. I don’t have anything to tell you, as you asked. I came outside to get a breath of fresh air,” Sam said. “It’s a nice day. Don’t you love this? Steaming up the mighty Mississippi like they did a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “Now that you have a belly full of fresh air, you coming back downstairs for some more action?” Percy Ray asked.

  Sam dropped an eyebrow and closed one eye. “You know, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day.” He slowly nodded. “Besides, they’re about to open the buffet, and I could go for some crab cakes right about now. You guys want to join me? My treat.”

  “Naw, we don’t eat with double-crossers,” Percy Ray said.

  The goon on the left turned his head and spat on Sam’s brown Salvatore Ferragamo shoes.

  Sam looked at the wad of phlegm glisteni
ng in the sun and realized he would not charm his way out of this one. He rubbed the side of his face with an open hand, and said, “Uh, there must be some misunderstanding. You gentleman do know who I am, don’t you?” It was three against one, and Sam knew even if it were one-on-one, he’d have little chance of walking away the victor. Playing the family name card seemed like the best offense.

  Percy Ray shrugged. “You come from a very respected family. But that name don’t carry the weight it used to. It’s cheats like you who are responsible for that. You bring disrespect to your family name.”

  A young couple holding hands came around the corner. Both had bright smiles and the sparkle of love in their eyes.

  Mr. Spits broke from Percy Ray’s side and stood in front of them, with arms crossed over his chest.

  The lovers’ smiles melted, and they gazed blankly at each other.

  Mr. Spits lowered his head and peered over his sunglasses at them.

  The couple got the message and made a swift retreat.

  “Time’s wasting,” Percy Ray said. “Hand over the cash you stole.”

  “Stole?” Sam said incredulously. “I won the money fair and square. It was my turn for Lady Luck to smile down on me.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Percy Ray said. “My boss expects me to return the loot.” He rubbed a knuckle under his chin. “Tell you what. You give us the money and the loaded dice, we’ll let you go. If not…” he paused to chew gum, “we’re gonna take the money and throw you in the paddlewheel.”

  The thought of getting mangled by the churning paddlewheel certainly got Sam’s attention. But he was a Miceli. This threat could all be a bluff. Sure, he had scammed fifty thousand dollars from the craps game, but he desperately needed the money. There were other debts he had to make good outside of the Mafia. The Mexican drug cartel he owed was impatient and merciless.

  Death by Italian mobsters or Mexican monsters. Sam felt a panic attack coming on. And when he panicked, he ran.

  “Look! The police!” Sam shouted and pointed a finger to the left.