Into the flashback, p.9
Into the Flashback, page 9
And found the rex was already looking down at him. It had apparently swallowed the policeman's legs and found its stomach still wanting ... as if it had dined Chinese. Its cold gaze met Omar's and what immediately followed was a little moment between biker and carnosaur. Its slitted, pale eyes seemed almost to be saying: I'm liquidating our partnership, Hoss. And I’m liquidating you. No, nothing personal ... just hungry. And you' re fresh.
“D-a-mn y-o-u!!” Omar screamed, his face tilted angrily against the harsh press of the sun.
He kicked his Harley down into first gear and brodied away from the Old Hippie, laughing.
The rex cocked its head like a bird, fascinated, and followed him with its sharp eyes. But it did not lunge for him. Its tiny forearms waggled ridiculously and it seemed confused.
Watching from inside, Roger figured it would really suck to have arms so little you couldn't scratch your head. Then he thought of his missing hand, and laughed a little nervously.
Omar The Mad and Bleeding made a high-speed circle around the rex. Its head shifted from side to side angrily as it tried to keep a bead on him. When the biker swung back into view, he motioned to the rest.
“Come on you spineless bastards!” he screamed, his long hair licking and lashing at his face. “Let's pick him up and move him out! Blockade, meet dinosaur!”
The Old Hippie's drunken eyes flashed to the blockade and back. It could be done, he realized. They could whip the rex into a frenzy and lead him right to the blockade.
He kicked his bike into gear.
The cops wouldn't know whether to shoot at them or shoot at the rex. It would be total chaos ... and that suited an Old Hippie just fine.
He tore out away from the store and the others fell in behind, hooting and hollering like motorized chieftains from hell.
XIII | Round-up
Roger turned toward the cashier. “We're not gonna want to be down here when all those yo-yos open fire,” he said. “Is there a ladder to the roof?
The clerk smiled and held up his keys. “There's a metal hatch in the rear. "
Roger nodded and motioned to Savanna. "Right. Let's go.”
The little group pulled together and headed for the back of the store.
Beyond the crumbled facade, a billowing section of newspaper danced past like a tumbleweed. The wind had picked up suddenly and violently, as though the elements were warring for control of the earth. Dirt and dust and bouncing pebbles now blew across the lot like swirling glitter, just as snow had done only moments before. Amidst the gale, the Dusty Moths had formed their own little rumbling wagon train—and were circling the rex like angry hornets. The agitated carnosaur was beginning to circle as well, tracking them around and around, its massive jaws hung wide.
They revolved like that for several moments, the bikers chasing each other; the rex seeming to chase its own tail. Then its huge head darted forward and down, sweeping the Old Hippie clean from his bike. The riderless Harley rolled forward without him, then crashed on its side to grate along the asphalt.
The sound of small arms being fired issued from the blockade. Pop-pop-pop!
The rex jerked its head and sent the Old Hippie flying—still alive and wailing insanely—through the hot, shimmering, windy air.
Pop-pop-pop-pop ...! More gunfire from the highway. Yet neither the bikers nor the rex were being hit.
The screaming stopped abruptly as the Old Hippie's body bounced twice over the concrete, its broken legs flopping opposite their joints, its dead arms flailing. But the cyclone of leather and sputtering Harleys continued to rumble in circles about the rex, and glancing to the Old Hippie's body briefly, its lunatic ringleader laughed insanely and cried against the wind: “Somebody give the man a straight cigarette!”
They heard it clear from the Ozark station's office, but the distant gunfire was inaudible beneath the rex's bellowing and the Harleys' rumbling.
“He's gone crazy,” Clara whispered, and shivered all over.
“The whole world's gone crazy,” Savanna said.
“You got it yet?” Roger shouted, craning his neck to peer up the roof-access shaft.
The cashier was at the top of the ladder, juggling keys. “Almost, man ...”
Savanna squeezed Roger's arm in both hands.
An instant later the hatch banged open and sunlight spilled down the shaft. Pop-pop ... pop ... The distant gunfire trailed off and was gone.
“All-right-all-right-all-right ...!” the cashier exclaimed, and scrambled out through the opening.
Roger and Savanna immediately followed, and Clara brought up the rear, panting heavily. By the time Roger and the clerk pulled her into the light by her arms, she'd sweated huge stains in her white dress.
A tremendous cloud of billowing dust churned up from the direction of the parking lot, winding away like battle-smoke. Scrambling to the edge of the roof, they all looked at the spectacle below—and wondered if maybe they weren't going mad themselves.
It had become a virtual stampede down there. The bikers were hollering like chain-gang hicks and pretending to throw lassoes at the now frenzied tyrannosaur. After a moment, Omar the Great and Terrible swung into view .... and waved up at them festively.
They all gave him the finger.
Omar laughed, looking up at them. That's kind of special, he thought. Like a twenty-one-gun salute.
He whirled around to face forward—and saw the rex's twin-clawed hand swoop down out of nowhere. It looked like a twisted, dead tree branch; all black and spidery against the searing blue sky. He died instantly as the flashing talon flayed away his face, sending it spinning through the air like a swollen-eyed Frisbee.
The handlebars jerked sideways and the blood-splashed Harley tumbled end-over-end. Omar landed at the foot of the gas-pumps. He also landed at the far end of the lot. Roger grimaced and fought back the nausea. He wondered how some unsuspecting paramedic might react upon rolling over the body.
And then he laughed bitterly, for the Dusty Moths had become the Three Musketeers in less than ninety seconds. He looked to the rex and saw the king of all predators throw back its head, roaring at the sky triumphantly.
One of the survivors steered for the rubble of the building, but cracked up badly as he tried to ride his Harley back inside. His body went flying like so many others, and the CNN tumor in Roger's brain said: Old hat, man. Bring on something new.
At last, the remaining two split off in different directions. One got only as far as the rex's flashing jaws, and began screaming hoarsely as the monster lifted both him and his bike off the ground. They died in the carnosaur's palate as one twisted lump; like some shrieking, idling medicine ball—all made up of mangled flesh and bent steel.
Roger hoped the gas tank would explode and blow the scaly bastard's head right off. But it didn't, and an instant later the rex opened its jaws—letting the crumpled Harley fall smoking to the ground. It crashed against the pavement with the shrieking of steel ... and then exploded.
Roger was pale-faced. From the Three Musketeers to the Lone Ranger in thirty seconds, he thought. Jesus.
Fortunately, the exploding shrapnel still did some damage, and the rex stumbled back with a hundred little razor cuts scattered over its face. Its thick tail nudged against a gas pump and Roger saw the mounts break loose. But the pump remained standing ... barely.
Seeing this, the lone survivor of the Dusty Moths zoomed off toward the trees and the grassy, rocky terrain beyond, out away from the interstate and into the newly unknown.
Ditching his bike, he disappeared into the blowing green grass. And Roger noticed that the grass had grown. It now stood higher than the average person, rippling in the wind like ripe cornstalks.
An instant later, he saw something dark and fluttering dip from above and snatch the biker away, like a pelican scooping a fish from the water. The shadowy something then vanished behind a hill, and Roger shuddered as if rocked by a chill wind. He scanned the sky for more dark somethings, but found only empty blue and scattered clouds.
But it wasn't over.
In fact, it seemed it was just beginning as the tyrannosaur turned its great head and stared at everyone on the roof. Its eyes flashed to something below them, and it growled from deep in its throat. It opened its goo-strung maw and bellowed, then thundered forward ...
Everyone shuffled back. The rex passed beneath the roof, leaving only its tail exposed. They watched as the striped dagger swung from side to side. There was a sudden, tortured cry, and the rex backed out into their view again—holding a biker in its blood-drenched jaws. All was silence as it dropped him to the ground and buried its snout in his abdomen.
“Jesus, man ...” the cashier groaned. “I’ve seen enough already!”
He turned his gaze to the blockade. “We’re out of the way; why don't they open—” He left off suddenly.
“Holy shit,” he moaned.
Everyone else followed his stare.
The blockade had been attacked. Its dead were now scattered everywhere; some lying between cars, others collapsed on hoods. At least one man was folded over an open door, his bleeding arms resembling wet socks hung out to dry. Lonely lights revolved atop the cars, flashing.
And among it all, twentyfold velociraptors were enjoying a free lunch, feeding and mingling and feeding some more—like scaly employees at a company picnic.
“Ah, man ...” the clerk said at last. “Would somebody please tell me what the hell's going on here?”
“I don't think you'd like my answer,” Savanna said, staring off into space. “If it is an answer.”
“Look, it’s okay,” Roger intervened. “The rex has got enough food down there to last him the proverbial winter. We just gotta hang tight up here until he settles down—”
The entire building lurched violently, and the roof slanted precariously toward the parking lot. The rex looked up at them briefly, snarling ... then returned to its kill.
“You were saying ...?” the clerk prompted.
“Okay, yeah, that's no good ...” Roger looked to the ridge of rock which stood between them and the highway, and the field of tall grass proceeding it. “Right. Okay, then ... I believe it's time.”
He was trying not to think about fluttering dark somethings.
“Time for what?” the cashier barked. “Time to die? Oh, man ... Thank-you for sharing that with us—”
“Time to run,” Roger said.
“Oh, man! You want to have a footrace with that thing?”
“Why not, it's distracted,” Roger said. “And it's tired. I say we drop down on the south side of the building, run north through the grass to that ridge, and try to flag a ride on the other side.” He laughed a little nervously. “If there is an other side. "
Savanna squeezed his arm. “I think you're right ... and we might not get another chance.”
The clerk glowered at her unbelievingly. “Look baby, this ain't Father Knows Best ...” He turned to Roger. "With all due respect to your delirious husband here, I gotta tell you all that's absolutely, positively not the thing to do.”
Timbers shifted somewhere beneath them, like the groaning floorboards of a ragtag trawler.
Roger stared at him. “Listen to the building,” he urged.
The cashier glared back, sweat beading along his forehead. The timbers continued to creak, ominously. At last, he nodded grimly. “Okay, homeboy ... we'll do it your way. You ever ran before?”
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “Just to the fridge with a cigarette in my hand.”
The clerk clapped him on the arm. “That's a good start ...” He turned to the women. “Let's do it!”
Clara Bonner, however, had begun backing away from them, her face pallid. She retreated until she reached the south edge of the roof, and could retreat no more. Savanna let go of Roger and stepped toward her.
“Clara?”
She was shaking her head. “I can't ... I can't, okay?”
The roof skewed once more, and the loose gravel shifted beneath their shoes like greased ball bearings.
“You got to, honey,” Savanna told her gently. “We're not leaving you here.”
“Well, I’m not going!” Her eyes had welled up in tears. “See, this is the part of the movie where the fat chick who can't keep up bites it ...”
“No,” Savanna insisted. “We 're gonna make it. We are all going to make it, do you understand me?”
Again the roof tilted, and everyone wavered dangerously on their feet. And again the rex glanced up from its kill to stare at them coldly. Any more movement and they would all be on a slide-trough to hell.
“I’ll just stay with Roy,” Clara said, and shrugged her shoulder like a pudgy little girl.
“Jesus Christ, Clara ... you can't just—”
And the roof started to topple.
XIV | Marathon
Savanna shoved Clara ruthlessly over the side, and an instant later they were all free-falling, their arms swinging in broad circles. Tall green grass loomed up around them as they crashed to the ground. But even in the disorientation that followed—nobody called out. They all knew the score full well. It was time to run, and run fast, and never look back lest they be turned into pillars of salt.
And so they scrambled to their feet among the stalks of tall grass and did just that, sprinting through the emerald shadows as if pursued by their own worse nightmares. The clerk pulled into the lead, then Roger, Savanna, and just as she'd feared—Clara Bonner fell fast behind. For his part, Roger just prayed the cashier knew where he was going. He was a head taller than anyone else, and only he could lead them to the highway.
But it was difficult even to keep him in sight, let alone follow him —the tall blades of grass were whipping at Roger's cheeks like razors.
Finally, the clerk bellowed, “I see it!”
And the waddling shriek of an animal answered him. It had come from somewhere behind, somewhere back by ...
Clara broke faith and glanced over her shoulder, her eyeballs jostling wildly. The field behind her was shaking as if viewed through a hand-held video-camera, yet even amidst all the blurry confusion, she was able to see something tall and dark surging after her through the grass.
It was a black and red sail.
She turned back around and pumped her legs harder. Blades of grass flashed out of the darkness—lashing at her face, stabbing at her eyes. Her heart seemed to be trying to punch through her chest. She wanted to scream, tried to scream, but the breath was not hers to expend. Her shiny black shoes flew over the ground, kicking aside rocks and crushing down stalks. Then they faltered in their panic, twisted about each other as if caught up in barbed wire—and she fell sprawling into the grass with her purse tumbling before her.
The call came again, like a gibbering loon amplified tenfold, but it wasn't just closer .... it was there. Right on top of her. Clara felt warm breath blanket her back, and found she was able to scream at last.
Roger heard it from more than two dozen yards ahead. Startled, he craned his neck around to peer over his bouncing shoulder ... and realized Savanna was no longer behind him.
She spotted Clara's purse, first. Then Savanna saw the monstrous shape of the spinosaur, hunkering down over something on the ground. Feeding.
But Clara Bonner was still alive.
And Savanna found herself snatching up the woman's spilled purse and dashing through its contents frantically. An instant later she found what she was looking for, and grasping several syringes all in one hand, she charged at the sail-back—driving them into its right eye.
The monster reared back immediately, howling at the sky, the gleaming hypodermic needles protruding from its ruptured red iris. Savanna darted in as it stumbled back, and scooped up Clara by her soggy armpits.
She was still conscience. And though there was a lot of blood, it appeared her wounds were only superficial.
“Can you walk?” Savanna asked.
“It ain't over 'till the fat lady sings,” she breathed, and together they managed to get her up off the ground and moving yet again.
They'd traveled barely a few yards ... when the grass ahead of them rustled suddenly and split apart like chopped wood—
It was Roger.
“Everybody all-right?” he asked.
Savanna nodded emptily, and motioned for him to assist her. They each took up a beefy arm, bolstering Clara on their own lean shoulders, and the three of them moved out toward the highway. Wherever the hell that was.
Behind them, the Ozark station exploded. The ground was rocked by three consecutive concussions ... THUMP! KER-THUMP! THUMP! Flaming bits of debris twirled down like streamers.
A moment later the cashier called out from a distance.
“I'm on the ridge! Follow my voice! And hurry up—you got company!”
Roger glanced at Savanna, and she shook her head. “He sees the sail-back, that's all. It's ... I took care of it.”
He raised an eyebrow ... and there was a tremendous roar. He rose up on his toes and peeked over the grass.
The tyrannosaur was coming—it was striding and crashing through the field. Roger froze, watching the animal shimmer in the heat. The sight of its narrow, dark form bounding through the greenery seemed utterly alien. Nothing that big and that quick had any place on land.
“Guess who's coming to dinner ...” he said, then took a breath and snapped: “Let's move it!”
They broke into a sprint, struggling against their encumberment. The tall grass flashed by them in a blur. Roger could hear the rex getting closer; he could hear the breath surging in and out of its lungs. He pumped his legs as hard as he could, yanking Savanna and Clara along.
They burst from the shadows and their shoes pounded over concrete. Roger realized they were half-way home; they'd reached the feeder road to the freeway. He peered north over the grass and saw the ridge looming close. The cashier stood high atop its edge, waving his arms in the glare of the sun. My god, Roger dared to hope, we might just make it ...
But rationally, he knew that was impossible. It just couldn't happen that way. The rex was too damn fast.
They plowed forward into grass again. Roger expected to hear the rex cross the road at their heels, yet heard only rustling grass.
